


The Short and Miserable Romance of Victor Criss

by Darling (Roomies)



Series: Darling's OTP Prompts [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: BDSM elements, Bullying, Butch is a scary man, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, Developing Relationship, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Language, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Non-Canon Relationship, Painplay, Racism, Rape Roleplay, Rape/Non-con Elements, Semi-Canonical Character, Sexism, Some of these tags apply to chapters not yet posted, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-01-21 07:24:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12452493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roomies/pseuds/Darling
Summary: Told from Victor's perspective, each chapter details either a first or last moment of Vic's growing relationship with Henry Bowers.The story blends elements from the 2017 movie and the original book. The tags may be edited as the story is still in progress.Story prompt: The first and last Meeting/Kiss/Time of your OTP





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Movie canon takes precedence, with book details being used to fill in the blanks where necessary or sometimes preferred. Obviously, the personalities of the main characters needed to be adjusted slightly in order to allow a romance between them. If you want a happy Henry/Vic story, you can stop after chapter 4.
> 
> Constructive Criticism is, as always, appreciated. Any type of comment is much loved. My editor is another author on this account, Ambiguous, but I am also using the Hemingway app. If you see any grammatical mistakes / continuity errors, please feel free to drop it in the comments so I can correct.

_July 1978_

 

 ~*~

  

“Victor Andrew Criss, you get back here this instant!” 

The tiny blonde was flying down the street. His little Harley Davidson boots never touched the ground. The woman chasing him – her husband’s leather belt tight in hand – hadn’t run since high school. That had been two and half Vic’s ago. Red-faced and panting, she  was determined  not to lose sight of him.

“Your daddy’s gonna whoop your ass red, boy!”

He ran straight down Jackson Street and hooked a left at Witcham. His boots slipped against the smooth cement, but he managed to stay upright. He kept track of his directions in his mind, knowing he’d have to go home some day.  Maybe  after a week, or a month, or even a few months.  However  long it took for his parents to realize that coming here was the worst decision they could have made .

Maybe  he’d go back to Portland himself. Someone here must know how to get there and would be willing to give him a ride. He had two dollars in his pocket to pay for it.

But Papaw Criss had died, and now Vic’s dad decided they were going to be farmers. He didn’t care that Mama Criss had to leave her good job working in that office with the asshole boss (her words). He didn't care that they could no longer afford McDonald’s on the weekends. Papa didn’t care that their house was smaller, and smellier, or that there were rats in the basement. Papa didn’t care that it would take the entire family to work the land, and,  frankly  speaking, Vic didn’t want to. Papa Criss didn’t care about anyone but himself, and his sudden desire to recapture his youth.

Or at least that’s what his Mama told Angela Bartlett on the phone the night before the moving van arrived. Though Vic didn’t know what it meant, he agreed with it all the same. Because the way she said it, he knew it was something only an asshole would do.

“VICTOR ANDREW! STOP!” His mother’s voice sounded far away. He could hear the raw force in it, though. She was steamin’ mad, but he didn’t dare look back. He didn’t dare stop. As soon as he stopped, she’d be lifting him by one arm and whipping him with the other. So he lowered his head to fight the wind, and ran even faster.

Vic didn’t see the man until they were colliding. The child’s entire weight slammed into the back of the man’s knee, forcing it to buckle; but the man’s reflexes were fast. He caught himself on one knee.  His hand swung out with deliberate force, curling into a fist only moments before it caught Vic above his right eye . Fire exploded across Vic’s face. The force of the punch knocked him off his feet. As the back of his head bounced off the sidewalk, the world went bright white for a few seconds, and then black.

 

Vic woke for a brief moment. Someone was carrying him, cradling him like he was a baby. It wasn’t his Mama, but someone with big, round arms, who smelled like cigarettes and barbeque. Vic tried to protest  being carried , but his words came out slurred and messy. His Mama’s hand popped up from nowhere, petting his hair. She shushed him.

"Go back to sleep, baby. You’re alright.”

He might have tried to fight it, but his eyes were so heavy, and the world had gone fuzzy. He rested his face against the man’s chest, and drifted away again.

 

When consciousness returned in full, Vic was in bed, staring at the walls he'd wake up to every day for the rest of his life. Someone had removed his shoes, bandaged up his head, and tucked him in. He moved to undo all, but sitting up made the dull ache in his brain into a regular ache, and then it became a throbbing ache. His brain was thumping so loud against his skull, he almost didn’t hear the small voice asking him if it was alright.

“Huh?” Vic asked, turning so he could see who spoke.

Looking the same age as Vic, there was a boy sitting on a fold out chair beside the bed. He was taller than Victor by an inch, and had the sort of thin, hay-colored hair baby dolls had. He also had the face of a baby doll, with big blue eyes, and a small mouth. Boys weren’t supposed to be pretty, but Vic couldn’t think of another way to say it. The boy was pretty, and Vic couldn’t stop smiling when the boy looked at him. He liked it when the boy looked at him, but couldn't say why.

He was reading Vic’s comics and sipping from a Pepsi bottle with a straw in it. As he noticed Vic staring, he began to hold the Pepsi closer to his chest. Vic could see some second thoughts cross his mind. He held it out to Vic instead, turning the straw so it was easier for him to take a sip. It was the best tasting soda Vic had ever had.

“Butch got you good,” the boy said. His voice was lower than Vic’s, and already had a quality Vic would come to associate with drinking. “He said you might have a concussion.”

“Who’s Butch?” Vic asked, wincing as he remembered his headache. It seemed to make it stronger.

“My dad,” the boy answered, as if it wasn’t strange to call his dad anything other than some variation of father.

“Oh,” Vic said. The boy was straight forward and plain. It got Vic thinking that  maybe  he was wrong and that  maybe  in places other than Portland that was a normal thing. “What’s a concussion?”

“I don’t know but you’re  probably  going to the hospital,” the boy said. He seemed worried. He set the Pepsi down on the floor, and then held up some fingers, remembering something he saw on TV. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Vic counted them  slowly, trying to not to aggravate the pain. “Three.”

“Okay, you’re good then.  Just  get some iced peas and a glass of wine. That’s what my mom does when Butch gets _her_ good.”

Vic nodded. What the boy was saying didn’t make sense. How were peas supposed to help a headache? But he said it with such confidence that Vic couldn’t help but think he knew what he was talking about.

They sat in silence for only a few seconds, and then the boy’s mouth was running miles a minute. He showed Vic the comics he’d picked out to read. Even though they were Vic’s, he started talking to him about them like Vic wouldn't know anything. Vic hardly got a word in edgewise, and it was usually, “Oh yeah!” or “Cool.” But the boy had come alive, and his eyes sparkled as he pointed out some detail in the background of the page. Vic’d never seen anyone so passionate about something before. It had him charmed and mesmerized.

The boy was soon sitting on the bed beside him. The Pepsi shared between them, the boy went on about his comic book theories.

“He has to be in Batman’s brain because he always knows what Batman’s doing. Plus my dad has the same thing. He fought against the Vietcong and sometimes he thinks people are there when they aren’t.”

Vic didn’t know what a Vietcong was, but he’d heard Papa say that sometimes, so it was a thing that existed. It drew up some image of a giant monkey, though, so that's what he saw. He giggled at the thought of seeing one that didn’t  really  exist walking about. It made him remember the game he used to play. That was before Papa had backhanded him across the mouth and told him to grow up, of course.

_"That game's for little babies and psychos," he'd said. Vic had started crying, even as he insisted he wasn't either one._

“Yeah, but _you_ don’t see them because they’re ‘maginary,” Vic said. “Robin sees the Joker, too. So he’s real.”

“This is comic books,” the boy said, making a face like that answered everything. In a way, Vic supposed it did. They both started laughing at that.

“I’m Victor, by the way. Victor Criss.”

“Henry. Bowers,” the boy said, holding out his hand. Vic shook it, and when their skin touched, he felt something pass between them.

When Vic looked into Henry's eyes, he saw loneliness. He was like Vic: filled with passions and aspirations, looking for someone to share them with. But unlike Vic, he'd lost his boyhood innocence already. His arms were already sporting purple and blue marks from the lessons he'd learned so far. When Henry looked into him, he must’ve seen something too, because they both kept holding on.

Vic wondered if this is what it felt like to have a brother.

Lacing their fingers together in that way Vic sometimes saw in magazines, the two glanced at the door.  They didn’t think they were doing anything wrong, but they’d also learned a long time ago their parents often thought different .

Henry’s voice dropped into a conspirator’s whisper: “Do you like firecrackers?”

Vic nodded.

The mischievous smile that took over Henry’s face made Vic feel very happy in a way he didn’t  fully  understand. So they were both grinning ear to ear as he crept closer to Vic, and revealed that he had a pocket full of them.

“Can I come over when you set them off?” Vic asked, his voice also very soft and very low.

“Fuck yeah. I got a bunch of crap toys I plan on blowing up after cartoons tomorrow.”

Vic smiled at Henry using a _bad word_ , but the smile faltered when something occurred to him. “I don’t know where you live…”

“Oh, then I’ll come over here. Butch works until later and he can pick me up.  I think  he'd like to talk to your mom again. They've been talking in your dad's room for a  really  long time."

Vic blinked. Henry shrugged.

"I have some XMen comics in that box over there..."

 

Butch and Henry stayed for dinner. Mama had a dreamy look in her eyes as she served them sirloin and potatoes. Papa had bought that food for their anniversary. But whatever she and Butch had talked about put her in such a good mood, she must've forgot. Her cheeks were even a nice shade of pink, making her look like a little girl. The front door opened and Papa appeared. He had worked his last day at the supermarket, and the smile on his face match the one on his wife's. 

"You boys go on and watch TV," Papa ordered, clapping Butch on the back. "Let us grown ups talk." 

That was code for  _let us get drunk_. The boys shot them curious glances, and then were out in the living room. They had no way of knowing Oscar "Butch" Bowers and Andy Criss Jr were once old school mates, but the laughter coming from the kitchen was loud and hearty, and they knew they wouldn't be interrupted anytime soon. Henry's hand crept over to grab Vic's, and Vic let him take it. They sat that way until Henry passed out. Vic undid their fingers and pretended to be asleep when Butch came to collect his son. He seemed less like a psycho when he cradled his sleeping boy then when he knocked Vic out. The potential was still there, though.

Mama and Papa saw them to the door. They didn’t move Vic back to his room. They turned off the television set and went about their evening unpacking.  Vic couldn't make out the hushed argument they were having, but he could hear their tones and knew they were having one . It would be the first of many that ended with one of the other of them in the kitchen, and the other in the bedroom.

Pretending to be asleep became being asleep. Although he'd be waking up in that miserable house, Vic didn't mind it, anymore. He had a whole day of playing with Henry to look forward to. He would recall, years later, that they never did take him to the hospital. In fact, he could pinpoint that memory as the exact moment in time when his parents changed. It was subtle, at first, but they did change as all parents in Derry changed. They became less of a presence in his life, less invested. Almost like they had been preparing for his death from the moment it was decided they belonged there.

That day, Vic didn't know anything about it. So he slept peacefully, and dreamed of the day ahead.


	2. First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry and Vic go camping with their friends
> 
> Slight noncon warning applies to this chapter, as does canon domestic violence and child abuse.

_August 1985_

 

~*~

 

The four boys stood side by side in their underwear, staring down the long drop from the edge of the quarry to the lake. Reginald “Belch” Huggins was the tallest, having reached six foot by his 12th birthday. He had skinny legs and broad shoulders, and made a huge splash as he hit the water despite having pretty good form.

Patrick Hockstetter was the second tallest and definitive widest. He was the personification of the word "butterball." He was a vaguely boy-shaped lump of splotchy colored flesh. He howled like a madman as he leaped second, tucking his feet up underneath him to form a cannonball. Belch was coming up for air when the waves caused by Patrick slapped him in the face.

Victor, although he was giggling, felt dread as his turn to jump came up. He was pale and skinny. The others argued over whether the platinum blonde of his hair made his skin whiter, or whether it was the other way around. Either way, he was nothing more than a sparkle of starlight in his white Hanes.

He took a deep breath and prepared himself—

And screamed as he fell forward, pushed, _betrayed_ , by Henry. He was still screaming when his body broke the surface and the murky depths swallowed him whole.

Henry was the one all the girls talked about in a nice way. He wore hard work like it was a tee shirt. It left him with a golden tan, and the slightest definition on his chest that hinted at the body he would have in a few years. Belch lifted Vic onto his shoulders so they could watch Henry leap from the cliff. They cheered as he jumped backwards, getting in two solid flips before splashing down.

The quarry filled with their laughter as the boys played. It was the first time in a long year that they’d had any fun.

They swam until long after the sun had set, and the mosquitoes were coming out to feed. None of their parents were expecting them home. The Criss’ believed Vic was at the Huggins’. Mrs Huggins believed Belch and Henry was at the Criss’. Patrick’s parents might notice if he wasn’t here for breakfast. But they didn’t seem to care what he did since his baby brother Avery had died in the crib five years prior. Butch wasn’t allowed to know anything at all.

Vic still felt the chill that had run down his spine when he opened his bedroom window that night almost a week ago. Henry was standing outside with tears and snot streaming down his face, shaking. He’d had a whopper of a bruise on his neck that he still didn’t explain. Vic thought it looked an awful lot like Butch’s hands, and drew his own conclusions.

 _“He killed her,”_ Henry had said. As soon as he was inside Vic’s room, he’d pulled Vic into a tight embrace. That was the first hug of the year, but Vic couldn’t even enjoy it. Henry was trembling so bad. _“Butch killed my mom!”_

It wasn’t true. She’d survived, but her face was disfigured. Henrietta Bowers had taken her beating, and the one Henry was due for making trouble for Butch. Henry, of course, told Vic all about how it was his fault for making trouble with the Rabbi's boy -- a shy kid a few grades behind them. And while he cried and blamed himself, Henrietta was pulling herself into their sedan, running away to the WomansCare shelter, leaving Henry behind. But he didn’t know that as he held his best friend, his body racked with guilty sobs. He wouldn't know that for a few days, and by then, he'd tell Vic he didn't care. He only knew he'd last seen her in a bloody heap on the kitchen floor, and then he'd ran.

He was only twelve - life wasn’t supposed to be that difficult.

Henry would have stayed with Vic, but Butch had been making regular visits for many years. Vic still pretended sometimes it was just to talk because the truth made him uneasy in so many ways. Instead, Henry wound up staying with Belch. Mrs Huggins wouldn’t give up Henry if Butch set her on fire, so they knew he was safe there. Though Vic had to fight a lot of instincts not to go over there every day, knowing Henry was safe, for even a little while, made things better. Vic didn't even mind collecting, and completing, Henry's homework for him. Mr Caplan never commented on the sudden improvement of Henry's handwriting, either.

In fact, Mrs Huggins and Mr Caplan were some of the few adults who actually gave two shits about them. If Vic had lived to see his 16th birthday, Mrs Huggins would’ve taken him and Belch and fled to somewhere normal. His disappearance would have been credited to the pervert, so no one would look for him. His parents would be, in a small way, glad to see him go. It would have been a nice life, too. But things didn’t happen that way.

The safety of Belch’s house came with the price of freedom, and without freedom, Henry got bored. So grabbing his dad’s old tent from the garage, it had been Belch’s idea to go camping. He was tired of the piss attitude Henry got whenever he was bored, but was too nice to say anything. So far, it had been a good idea. 

The boys put on their shoes for safety reasons, but were still too wet for their clothes, as they went about setting up camp. Patrick built a nice fire, and stared deep into it as he burnt every hotdog he touched to a blackened crisp. Belch was setting up the tent - his dad had showed him how once upon a time, before the accident. Henry and Vic sat around with the small radio, trying to find the right mood music. It was one of the last true purely happy memories with Henry Victor would have, and somehow, he knew it. So he was taking all of it that he could.

“Ooh, stop here!” Vic slapped Henry’s hand. That earned Vic a nasty glare, and a punch on the shoulder. “Dude, it’s Queen. You always have to stop on Queen. It’s an unspoken rule.”

“No I fucking don’t,” Henry spit back. “I listen to real rock music not that psuedo-hippie bullshit. And if you don’t get your fucking hand off my radio I’m going to shove it up your ass.”

“You’re going to shove my hand up my ass or the radio?” Vic asked, sarcastically. “I need to know how much to prepare.”

“Keep talkin’ like that and it’ll be both. First your hand, and then the radio. How you like that?”

With a huff, Vic sat back and crossed his arms. “Fine, you get to pick the tunes, and tell us when to stop swimming, and what comics we can bring. Anything else you want, master?”

“Maybe,” Henry said, eyeing Vic coolly. “My boots haven’t been licked in a long time. Got some real nasty shit crusted up on them.”

Vic couldn’t help but smile, and had to cover it by pretending to rub the chapped skin from his lips. He didn’t really care that Henry was being a little bossier than usual. If Henry had told him to wear his mom’s lingerie, Vic would’ve showed up in a saucy pink ensemble. But he was in a weird mood, and craved every morsel of attention he could get. Needling Henry was the quickest way to get a bite in, so Vic was being, as his Mama would say, _incorrigible._

But it was time to take a break. Henry was growing frustrated, and Vic didn't want to ruin his first night out in forever. So instead, he said, “Sure thing. Let me just go chop my balls off first. Maybe then you’ll stop twisting them,” and stood up. He caught Henry looking as he walked away, and blew him a kiss. If anyone else had done such a thing, Henry would have rearranged their face. But Vic was special. He had special privileges to get away with more, as long as it wasn’t _too_ gay.

As Vic sat down on a blanket by the fire, Patrick handed him a beef flavored stick of charcoal. He managed to find some pink colored meat in the layers underneath, and then ate it in three large bites. He watched Henry’s face scrunch up in concentration as a song warbled into existence.

When Belch finished up the tent, he came and sat beside them. Drawing deep from his chest, he proved his nickname was well-earned. He started burping along to the chorus of the song Henry had stopped on – Blue Oyster Cult’s _Don’t Fear the Reaper_.

Vic and Patrick were howling with laughter, but Henry was not amused. He turned up the volume, trying to drown Belch out.

“Is that coming from your _mouth?_ ” Patrick was in awe. He hadn’t hung out with them that much yet so it was forgiven that he’d never heard Belch’s true talent. “Oh, that is freaky. Do it again.”

Belch got up and began to bob his head not unlike a chicken, burps breaking out every time his face came forward. He shuffled around with the grace one would expect from a boy of his stature. This broke Patrick up into tears.

"I fucking hate all of you," Henry said.

Vic was on his feet, too. He was so giddy from laughing that he took Belch’s hands and began to dance. Belch didn’t think anything of it, and was kind enough to burp in the opposite direction of Vic’s face. Henry turned the dial on the volume again until the speakers were vibrating. Vic and Belch both started singing along, louder than the radio. They sang along until the song ended, even as Henry threw pebbles and rocks at their feet.

As Billy Idol’s _Dancing With Myself_ started playing, Belch and Vic let go of each other. Henry gave up and went after a hot dog. Patrick gave him a cigarette instead, and the two shared it as they watched Vic and Belch dance – but mostly, they watched Vic.

Not surprising, Vic was a much better dancer than Belch. The spry blonde wasn’t doing anything complicated. He'd picked up a few things from movies and music videos, and practiced until they looked okay in the mirror. Where Belch looked like a bag of potatoes being swung with great enthusiasm to the beat, Vic looked like he was actually dancing. In a few years, he could compete against Michael Jackson himself.

When that song was over, Vic plopped to the ground. That seemed to break some kind of spell. Henry looked around, nervous like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Patrick let out a deep breath, and his livery lips split into the biggest, curliest smile Vic had ever seen outside of a cartoon. Henry cleared his throat and handed Patrick the cigarette. He then stood up, rubbing at his crotch.

“I gotta piss,” he said, as if it needed explaining.

“Want someone to hold it?” Patrick asked.That was the first time he'd done one of his weirder jokes, and it took them all by surprise. Patrick locked eyes with Vic. Vic found himself unable to look away as Patrick held one of the hotdogs down near his crotch, and started rubbing it. Vic knew what he was simulating, but the blackened outside was cracking and peeling. Instead of imagining a regular dick being masturbated, Vic's mind conjured some filthy, disease ridden thing. He gagged, earning him another smile from Patrick.

Henry did a double take, scowling: “What the fuck did you just say?”

“I’m just saying, bosses need a right hand man,” Patrick said, putting a weird emphasis on _right hand_. He bit into the wiener he’d been flogging. “Someone to wipe your ass and hold your dick and all that jazz.”

A rose color blossomed on Henry's cheeks as he realized how he'd misunderstood Patrick. He blinked a few times, and then pointed at Patrick. “We don’t do that homo shit around here, alright?”

“It’s not homo,” Patrick called after him. Then, with a wink in Vic’s direction: “Not unless you want it to be.”

Vic shifted in his seat.  _He_ was Henry's right hand man, or so they said. The image of him on one knee, hand out for Henry to rest his dick on, crept into Vic’s brain. It was compelling in a strange way, and Vic shivered, not sure how to process how it made him feel. Maybe Henry had seen the same thing in his mind, because he looked everywhere but at Vic. He slapped Patrick on the back of his head before disappearing into the underbrush to relieve himself.

The three of them lit up the last cigarette. Vic took a long drag, let the smoke escape through the side of his mouth, and then passed it onto Belch. They got halfway through when Vic saw Henry out of the corner of his eye. He was standing behind a tree, and gesturing with his head for Vic to follow. Belch and Patrick didn't seem to notice, and had started discussing which actresses they wanted to bang. Vic flicked his eyes back Henry's way, and the bigger boy was gone. A small ball of excitement forming in his belly, Vic stood up. He brushed leaves and dirt off his ass, and started heading in the way he saw Henry go.

“Where you going?” Belch asked, coughing.

“Paris,” Vic shot the answer over his shoulder. Patrick’s titter followed him as he walked along the side of the lake. He tried not to make too much noise, listening for Henry. He wound up going a good ways down before he spotted his friend leaning against a tree.

Moonlight splashed against Henry’s young frame. His blue eyes were searching the sky, a small smile curling his lips. Vic was struck with how beautiful Henry could be. Even with fading bruises marking his body, he was ethereal. There were so many things going on in Vic’s head, he wasn’t sure exactly what his body wanted to feel. He was queasy, and happy. Nervous.

 _You don't even know what he wants,_ Vic's brain said, being reasonable. But Vic did know what Henry wanted. It was the same thing Henry always wanted when he shuffled Vic off into private. He wanted some kind of touch that wasn't painful; some kind of affection that wasn't laced with poison. He wanted Vic to hug him, to pet his hair, to reassure him that he wasn't a monster, or stupid, or whatever other terrible thing Butch had planted in his head.

But there was something different in the air. Henry was contemplating too hard about something. There was only one way to find out what that something was, so Vic snapped his fingers, then hit the side of his right hand flat with the palm of his left. It was a nervous tic he’d picked up from his Papa. He did it again as he strode towards Henry, looking around at the area of the Quarry they were in.

They were right at the curve of the lake, where the moon was the brightest. It gave the area a strange blue tint, like they were caught in the glow of a battery operated lantern. 

Henry turned his head when he heard Vic approach, and watched him with a thoughtful expression. When Vic was close enough for a good conversation, he started picking up pebbles and tossing them into the lake. The tiny splash they made was good noise. _Plip_.

“How come I’ve never seen you dance before?” Henry asked, picking at his cuticles.

Vic shrugged. _Plip._ In went another pebble.

“You saw me dance at Veronica Grogan’s birthday party,” Vic said. He could clearly see the conga line of eight year olds with no coordination trying to do the Locomotion. It had been a spectacular mess, but loads of fun. 

“That doesn’t count,” Henry said, rolling his eyes. “I mean like you were dancing just now.”

Vic shrugged again. “Just haven’t felt like it, I guess.”

“I liked it. You should do it more,” Henry said. Vic turned to look at him, and Henry was staring off in the distance. He was rocking against the tree. Vic rolled it over in his mind before he said a quick, “Thanks.”

“I like… I like a lot of things you do,” Henry sounded like it was difficult to say what he was saying. Vic supposed for someone like Henry, it might have been. He wasn’t used to using his words to express the things inside of him. So Vic didn’t interrupt him. Instead, he stood up, hand full of glittering pebbles, and gave Henry his full attention. "I like that you're smart. I know I rag on you a lot for it, but that's just something I have to do. Can't have the guys thinking I'm soft on you." Henry paused. He took a deep breath. Vic was curious now. “I like the way you smile. It makes me think of cats and happy shit. Your face makes me think of cats...like the way their faces just… stick out...”

Vic waited a few moments, making sure Henry was done. Henry was blushing, his eyes refusing to look at Vic. Vic didn't know what to say to that. He took the sentence apart and examined every piece of it. He came to the conclusion Henry was trying to compliment him, and decided to return it.

Dropping the pebbles in to make a pattering of  _plip_ s, Vic was forming his thoughts before speaking them.

“Well, thanks, Hank. Your face makes me think of..” Vic wanted to say _Kevin Bacon_ , but he stopped himself. He could do better. He needed to do better. “You know when it’s cold outside but the sun is shining? Or when your mom hangs the towels over the heater so your ass doesn’t freeze in winter?” Henry nodded. “That’s what I think of when I look at your face. When everything else is just fucking cold, I can look at you and feel warm.”

"Why?" Henry asked, scrunching up his face. 

"Because you're my best friend," Vic said, and at that moment, he truly believed it. The way Henry made him nervous sometimes - like they were dancing on the edge of the quarry's cliff, waiting for the other to take the plunge first - he had never felt for anyone else. But as Henry closed the distance between them and took Vic’s hands in his, Vic knew he never would. Just like Vic was special to Henry, Henry was special to Vic. Henry ran his thumb over Vic’s, and Vic massaged circles into Henry's palms. Although they didn’t hold hands as often as they did when they were little, Vic didn’t think this usage of physical affection was anything other than ordinary. At least, not until Henry brought one set of hands up to his lips, and gave Vic's a little kiss. This drew small laugh from Vic, who asked, “What’re you doing?”

“Thanking you,” Henry said. He decided to elaborate when he saw the frustration on Vic’s face. “For helping me with Butch, and… just shut up and let me do this, because it's _never_ happening again.”

He kissed Vic’s hand again. Turning their hands over, he kissed Vic’s wrist, and then his forearm. It wasn’t unpleasant, but Vic was too confused to really appreciate the moment. Henry drew the line at kissing. They'd tried it once - a kiss on each cheek - and had decided it was too weird. He was even more confused when Henry stopped kissing his arm, and, instead, brushed his lips against Vic’s. It wasn’t a kiss, exactly. It was testing for one. When Vic didn’t resist, Henry put a little more force into it.

Vic lit up like a sparkler on the fourth of July. He felt dizzy, smelling the lake on Henry's skin, and their pheromones intermingling. As Henry kept kissing him, he thought he might pass out. Like the dames in the movies, just swooning over their cowboy. Vic brought a hand up to Henry's hair, and pulled him in closer. 

He hadn’t noticed Henry had dropped his hand until he felt it, warm and soft, sliding into his underwear, cupping his penis. He couldn’t speak. He tried to, but he was scared when he realized what Henry was doing. What he was _really_ doing. It felt good. Vic knew he needed to tell Henry to stop before they got caught, but he didn't want him to stop. 

But if he did those things, what did that make him? Was he queer? Was Henry? A bullet of fear broke through Vic's heart as he thought about Butch finding out. He could see Henry - so big when he was with his friends, and so small in Butch's shadow. Butch would crush him, grind him into dust. The thought made Vic's heart twitch. The image of Henry's face, caved in, an eye jutting out, was so vivid that if Henry's mouth hadn't been there to catch it, he would've gasped.

“No,” Vic said, pulling away. Henry didn’t seem to hear him. He just stepped in closer, and went back to it. Vic squeezed the wrist of the hand fondling him as tight as he could, and pulled it away from him. Henry looked down at the wrist, and then took a step back, jerking it from Vic’s grasp.

“I thought you liked me,” Henry said, sounding hurt. His face twisted into something so full of hate, it was worthy of Butch. “I’m not a flamer. If you tell anyone, I’ll-”

“I do!” Vic said, before the fear could really settle in Henry, and Vic lost him. Lost everything. “I do like you, Henry. But can we just… do more of what you were doing before? I liked that.”

Henry licked his lips, and reached out to brush the hair behind Vic’s ear. He ran his thumb along Vic’s lip. Vic thought maybe another kiss was coming, but instead, he pulled Vic by the hand until he was falling in step behind Henry.

“You think you could maybe get those hotdogs away from Fucknuts before he burns all of them?” Henry asked, starting back towards their camp.

“Yeah, okay,” Vic said. “Henry...” He wanted to ask _what’s next?_ But he had the feeling they were in dangerous territory. So he never finished his sentence.

“And where the fuck are the marshmallows? Didn’t I tell you to bring marshmallows, the big kind?” Henry turned to walk backwards while he talked. Vic was in awe that he didn’t trip even once.

“I’ll get them for you, Hank,” Vic said. That brought another smile to Henry’s face. He hopped in place a couple of times, and then broke out into a full sprint. He always tried to get a head start because Vic was faster, but the younger boy passed him easily, as always. By the time Henry actually made it back to the others, Vic was whipping Patrick with a burnt wiener as the two boys laughed, and Belch had a skewer of Marshmallows ready for smores.

 

Henry went back to Butch the next day, deciding to take his punishment like a man. Vic didn’t see him again until school started. He was unsure of how things were left between them, so he didn’t say anything, letting Henry make all the moves. Sporting a shiner and a cracked lip, Henry draped his arm around Vic’s neck while Patrick and Belch were in Home Ec, and dragged him into the bathroom.

“We can do that stuff you like,” Henry whispered. “But I want to try something.”

Vic sat on Henry’s lap, his boots planted against the wall so anyone who entered only saw Henry’s underneath the stall. They took turns filling their mouths with smoke, and, on Henry’s suggestion, each other’s tongues. It was nice. Henry came home with him after school. They made out until Mama called them down to dinner.

The next week, Henry started dating Veronica Grogan, but Vic knew it wasn’t the end of whatever madness had gripped them that night at the Quarry. Henry was a lot like Butch in that sense. Sure enough, he watched Butch come ‘round the house in the afternoon for his Mama, and Henry come ‘round in the evening for himself. And Vic was just fine with that. He didn't know if he was gay, or straight with an exception. He knew Veronica was just some _thing_ to throw people off their scent, and that the more he and Henry sucked face, the closer they felt.

Sometime before Christmas, Vic looked at Henry from across his bed and realized he might just be in love. He didn't really know what love was - his parents certainly didn't know enough to tell him. But as he brushed the hair from Henry's face, he knew that if Butch ever caught them, he would take every last punch Butch had to throw if it meant Henry got away safe. They weren't just best friends, or brothers. He wasn't just some right-hand man, there to keep Henry's mission on point and to reel him back if he got in too deep. Henry had become his everything, and he was the only thing keeping Henry alive, sometimes.

And sometime before the new year, after Butch was reinstated on the force after a long and grueling suspension, Henry realized the same thing: that Vic would die for him. He only needed to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, since the Bowers gang are 11-12 years old, draws more on the book for inspiration. Namely in regards to Victor and Belch's personalities, and the flavor text/referenced events. I also used some real life influence, such as my own personal experience with awkward 12-year-old flirting, and the actor playing Victor Criss in the new movie being a dancer (if you didn't know that before, you're welcome.)
> 
> Constructive Criticism is, as always, appreciated. Any type of comment is much loved. My editor is another author on this account, Ambiguous, but I am also using the Hemingway app. If you see any grammatical mistakes / continuity errors, please feel free to drop it in the comments so I can correct.


	3. First Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings that apply to this chapter: canon child abuse, domestic violence, non-con/rape elements, dubious consent. I know I said the first three chapters were the "happy story", and those tags might suggest otherwise, but I'm also trying to stay close to canon and reality. There is a little bit of coercion, hence the non-con elements and dubious consent tags.

_First time, October 1988_

  
~*~

 

The rain was never-ending. It slid off, and through, the roof of the small house at the end of Jackson Street, leaving puddles in the yard, basement, and Victor’s closet. He listened to the water dripping into the metal bucket and stared at the ceiling. Caught in between consciousness and sleep, his mind conjured sweet memories of the passing summertime – of straw-colored hair, eyes the color of the sky, and stolen kisses. Vic slid his hand down across his belly, and into his jeans.

When he closed his eyes, he could almost feel Henry. Feel his weight as he straddled Vic, and the hard on poking Vic’s bellybutton. He could almost hear Henry’s voice whispering in his ear, as sweet as cream soda: _I need you_.

He gently rubbed at himself as he saw Henry moving in a slow rhythm against him. Their bodies intertwined, glistening with sweat, touching everywhere they could.

Biting his lip, he drew his knees up as he came. When he was done, he cleaned up, and sat down for a cigarette. He felt that bittersweet bite as the high faded and reality came back. 

Vic didn't want to call himself obsessed, but hardly a day went by he wasn't thinking of Henry. Henry naked. Henry giving him a massage. Henry eating a popsicle while Bon Jovi played in the background. But the fantasy where they were TOGETHER would never come true -- could never come true. As nice as it was nice to pretend for a few minutes a day, it was just too big of a risk.

Maybe, though, he could get Henry to pretend with him. Then it would almost be the same thing. Or at least it'd be close enough. 

Amy’s horn was blaring, and Vic was out the door, leaving behind the smell of teenage hormones and Marlboro's.

Amy was a beauty unlike any other. Belch had bought the 1958 Blue Trans Am – _Trans Amy,_ Vic would think from that point onward – before he’d even secured his driver’s license. He’s done paper routes and summertime yard jobs for the last five years, saving every penny, just for her. He’d never been more proud of anything in his life. Belch had her washed and waxed just before the rain had started, and she still had her shine; a glittering sapphire in the dull gray of the day.

Vic had to admit; at first, Amy was just a car. But when Belch had first showed up with her, the grin he’d had lit his face up so bright. That was back when she was a piece of trash. He'd buffed her, loved her, and made her shine. Vic never thought he'd be so jealous of an inanimate object before.

When Vic was halfway across the lake that had once been his yard, Patrick whistled.

“We've got a surprise for you,” he said, his voice having a song-like quality to it.

Like an accordion being unfurled, he had only grown in height since the night in the quarry. All legs and elbows, Patrick was standing outside Amy to smoke in a red plastic poncho and matching galoshes. He held his hand over his lighter, clicking it open and shut, as Belch, who’d only grown in weight, scrambled out of the driver’s seat.

Victor noticed right away that Belch was wearing blue. Although Vic knew it was to match Amy, he looked down at his green jacket, and rolled his eyes. 

_Fuck... we're Huey, Dewey, and Louie._

He hoped no one saw them and made that same connection. He was already tired of the way people spoke to them like they weren't a group of friends, but like they were Henry's goons.  _The Bowers Gang_ , some people called them, moments before getting smacked. And yet, Vic felt exactly like he was Henry's underboss as Belch went around to pop Amy's trunk. It was barely big enough to hold all of their backpacks, but from it, Belch pulled one of two wooden milk crates filled with several odd-shaped bottles. It took Vic a moment to recognize the shapes. When he did, his eyes widened.

“Where the fuck did you get _those?_ ”

 

Witcham was impassable, so Belch had to take the long way around. They arrived at the Bowers household only a few minutes late, which was alright for Vic. If he was going to be allowed back onto Bowers property, he had some amending to do after the incident with Butch. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Taking a deep breath, he went to collect the offerings. He palmed a pack of cigarettes, and grabbed one of the bottles of honey whiskey and the six-pack of Heineken.

He recited the rules Henry had given him before giving the door a gentle tap with the toe of his boot.

_After how you stared him down last time, you can’t be afraid. He’ll be looking for a weakness—_

Butch opened the door wearing his uniform shirt untucked and open. Vic broke the first rule already, and felt a great rush of fear trickling down his spine, right passed the swollen shoulder blade. Everything came back to Vic at once.

Henry had called the boys in to help him out. Somehow, the Bowers small garden in the back had produced enough tomatoes that Butch thought they could sell some. None of the tomatoes in the load Vic was carrying had been damaged when he’d lost his grip, but Butch was standing on a hair trigger that day. He emerged from the house with a block of wood from the fireplace.

Vic didn’t really feel pain as Butch _got him good_ on his shoulder. What made it memorable was more the way Butch had been growling, barking, yelling at him in that deep and rumbling voice of his. It was like facing down a roaring tornado before it tore apart everything in its path. He had lifted Vic up by his hair, and said, in a calm voice: _“I could kill you, you know. Bury you under my house to feed the weeds while I fuck another baby into your mom’s Polack cunt.”_

Vic had felt such hatred for Butch in that moment. Not because of what he said, or even that he’d hurt him. No, Vic hated him because Henry heard him, _saw_ him. Henry watched, his jaw tightening, his breath catching, and could do nothing to stop it.

He couldn’t even warn Vic not to spit on Butch, though Vic should’ve known. Vic _did_ know. He did it anyway, and Butch went to town, bringing that block of wood down again, and again, and again.

Vic blinked as he brought himself back to the present. Butch’s eyes wandered from Vic’s face, down his body, to the gifts in his hands, and back up to his face. Everywhere his eyes touched itched, and Vic had to lock his knees to keep them from buckling as they turned to Jello.

_Don’t look him in the eyes; he’ll pop you for being disrespectful—_

Vic kept his eyes locked onto Butch’s chest. He felt raw, like God himself was stripping away all the pieces of his flesh to bare the sins of his soul. Butch stepped close, too close, and Vic’s nose flared with the smell of beer already strong on him.

_Don’t flinch; he’ll pop you twice for flinching—_

Vic stayed perfectly still as Butch’s rough, calloused hand moved through his hair. Taking strands between his fingers, Butch rubbed the blonde locks. For one delirious moment, Vic thought Butch would just tighten his grip, and start slamming Vic’s head into the wall, break his skull in. It would’ve made just as much sense as the smile he gave. It was a smug, satisfied smile that drove a corkscrew of ice through Vic’s loins. He felt so young, and so very small.

“You oughta thank your ma every day you don’t look like Andy,” he said. “If she’d had a little girl instead of you, I’d be a happy man,” He gave Vic a once-over with his eyes, before locking them onto Vic’s, forcing him to break the second rule. Vic did not want to even think about what Butch was implying, but the phantom of a mental image was forming, lingering just out of view, making Vic feel exposed. “You _do_ got a dick between your legs, don’t you?”

Vic hesitated before answering, “Yes, sir.”

“Your daddy don’t. Maybe you’ll be able to keep a woman happy.”

Vic just stood there. He didn’t know where he pulled the strength from, but his face was steel, his hands steady. He held the drinks and cigarettes out for Butch, feeling like he was a rabbit begging a hungry beast for safe passage.

Not another word shared between them, Butch took the presents. He gave Vic’s hair a not-at-all patronizing pat – _good boy_ , it said – and went to the living room to pretend like he didn’t hear Belch and Patrick shuffling past with their arms full of crates, blankets, and other such things. Vic stood frozen to the spot until Henry gestured for him. He didn’t even breathe until Henry was closing the basement door, creating an imaginary barrier of safety between them and Butch.

 

“I had to swerve to avoid the concrete breaking up, you know, and Amy took it rough. So I went down to the end of Neibolt to turn around, and there, right in front of that freaky fuckin’ house—”

“—Ohmigod you stole from the homeless—”

“—What? No. Shut up Patrick. Anyway, they were just _sitting there_ ,” Belch laughed, taking a sip straight from the bottle of some Jameson. “Right on the lawn like motherfucking Christmas.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. Vic wouldn’t have believed it if anyone other than Belch was telling the story. But Belch was about as good as making things up as he was at algebra – which is to say, he usually got Vic to do it for him.

“Right on the lawn?” Henry asked.

Belch nodded. “Like motherfuckin' Christmas.”

Patrick’s giggle filled the air. He had already drunk half a bottle of peach schnapps and his cheeks were blazing red. He clicked his lighter open, but refrained from releasing the flame. Henry had already warned him twice; third time was a busted lip.

“Why would a bunch of hobos leave this many unopened bottles of alcohol just lying around?” Vic asked. He kept his tone neutral, so as not to sound like he was accusing Belch of anything.

Vic had chugged a fourth of a bottle of red Gatorade, and then refilled it with vodka. He planned on taking the rest of the bottle home, and maybe one of the rums, to sweeten up Mama. He wanted a Game Boy for Christmas, but it was ninety bucks and he’d already asked for a new pair of boots too.

“Maybe they’re trying to get sober?” Patrick suggested, playfully nudging Belch. “So you were just helping them out, then, right?”

“Haven’t you ever heard ‘never look a gift horse in the mouth’?” Belch asked.

“The Trojans might disagree,” Vic answered. He saw the blank looks on Belch’s and Henry’s faces, and shook his head. “Really, guys? Really? The Trojan war?” They shrugged. “We learned about it in 6th grade!”

“I don’t remember anything from 6th grade,” Henry said, and Vic realized that was probably true. It would have been the grade when Henrietta left. Vic did all of Henry’s work that year.

“There’s only one Trojan horse I care about,” Patrick said, moments before sliding a condom out of his back pocket. He kissed it, and threw it at Vic. “Wanna ride mine? It's a stallion.”

Henry’s chest puffed up. He was going to say something, or hit Patrick, Vic was sure. But instead, he coughed, and took a swig of the honey whiskey he’d been nursing. Patrick, who had also been watching Henry, turned back to Vic. Vic was scowling in Henry's direction, not sure what he expected, or wanted. 

Brushing it off, Vic picked up the condom. “Extra-large? Are you sure this isn’t your moms? Because I’ve seen you naked, Patrick, and I'm pretty sure this is three sizes too big."

“I knew you were looking,” Patrick said, his voice taking on a flirty lilt. He reached over to snatch it back, but Vic, who was the only one with a lid on his drink, leaned back and held his arm out as far as it would go. Patrick’s arms were longer, though. He didn’t care that his bottle turned over as he crawled forward, spilling everywhere. He reached right past Vic’s head and plucked the condom from his grasp like Vic’s fingers weren’t turning white from holding it so tight. Then, with a wink, tucked it into Vic’s waistband. He leaned in close to whisper in Vic's ear: “Finders keepers. Have fun tonight, big boy.”

Patrick gave Vic a kiss on the cheek. Vic glanced over to Henry, but Henry was leaning back, his eyes half-lidded as he watched them. His mind was far away, though Vic didn't know where it could've gone. Vic stared at Patrick, wondering if Patrick knew or if he was just fucking with them. It was very hard to tell, so Vic decided to treat it like it was the latter. He shifted in his seat, took a sip, and tried not to glance at Henry as he felt the plastic around the condom poke into his skin. 

Patrick went back to the bottles and picked out something new, then plopped his ass down: "Who's ready for some shots?"

 

Belch was a useless drunk. He cradled a bottle of Wild Turkey and belted out Sweet Home Alabama as Henry took his turn on Duck Hunt. The orange NES Zapper snapped and popped. He didn’t miss a single duck. He didn’t seem affected by the alcohol at all, despite being the one to initiate almost every single shot. He was still standing, his eyes clear and hand steady, glancing at the basement door at every unfamiliar noise to see if Butch was going to come through it.

Patrick, though, was gone. Drool was puddling beneath his face as he laid down with his ass in the air. He’d lost one of his galoshes at some point, and his big toe was sticking out of the hole in his sock. Vic recalled him harassing Belch with that toe for some time. He wasn't exactly sure what happened between that point and now, but he was fairly certain Belch might've had something to do with how Patrick went down first. 

Belch had fashioned a tarp into a crude tent-like structure, and dug out the old battery operated lantern from a box of Henry’s old things. Vic lounged in the tarp-tent atop all the blankets and pillows, wearing Henry’s old pink leather jacket. They’d found it in the same box as the lantern, along with the comics he was reading. Though it was too small for Henry, Vic found it fit him nicely. Of course, the knowledge that at 14 he was the same size Henry was at 12 – despite the fact that Vic hit puberty first – was a little on the side of _complete bullshit_. But Vic took it in stride. The hungry look in Henry’s eyes when Vic had slid it on was enough to make up for that genetic oversight. It was in those moments he could tell himself that he wasn't entirely mad. There was something there between them, growing.

Henry spun the Zapper and blew on the end of it. Then, giving Vic a small, sly look, he removed his shirt. Vic, who was unfortunately less sober than he needed to be, had trouble finding things around him more interesting to look at than Henry’s bared muscles. He was a walking, talking Blueboy. The way everything tightened when he raised the Zapper warned of a power beneath his skin which could break little twigs like Vic in two.

 _Lean beef_ , his mother might have called it, with a cheeky smile. And if Henry was lean beef, Vic wasn’t sure what he was – tuna, maybe? Maybe tuna wasn’t a good comparison. No. If Henry was lean beef, Vic was a boiled egg. He hadn’t grown very much in height or weight since he was 11. When he flexed in front of the mirror, he didn’t see anyone interesting.

“What are you looking at? You want a turn?” Henry asked, his voice dipping slightly. Victor knew he was asking a layered question - Belch was supposed to hear one thing, and Vic something completely different. But as his brain unwrapped the second layer and saw the innuendo hidden inside, he felt his stomach clenching.

Afraid, nervous, excited? It all felt the same when dealing with his feelings for Henry. He knew which one he was supposed to feel, but it was a toss which one he was going to get. This one was feeling more like fear.

Victor took a long drink of his Gatorade, suddenly thirsty. He couldn’t even taste the vodka he’d slipped in it, even though the drink had turned pink from the amount of times it had been refilled with the liquor.

"No, s'my turn," Belch said, oblivious as planned. He set his bottle down beside the TV, and took the Zapper from Henry.

Henry was lighting a cigarette with Patrick's lighter, and as he brought to it his lips, Vic forgot what he was going to say. Henry’s eyes did a quick flick to Belch, who was stumbling to his feet. Vic hadn't realized how long he'd been staring. He didn’t look away, though. Belch was too drunk to stand straight, Vic doubted he’d notice some innocent ogling.

Vic took another drink, and shifted his eyes over to right beside Henry’s head. On the wall was a conveniently placed Rita Hayworth poster sitting over the television. It was close enough to Henry’s general vicinity that Vic felt confident he could use it to change the subject.

“Does your dad just come down here to whack it to her?” Vic invoked a forbidden thing: Butch Bowers’ sex life. It was just about the only way to guarantee the mood was killed. Henry visibly recoiled from the poster, and slapped the back of Vic’s head as he stepped over him and took a seat on a nearby crate. “I’m just saying, if we’re in your daddy’s sex dungeon I’d like to know.”

“I bet you would,” Henry said. "You know, Patrick asked me the same thing, Just wanted you to know the level of crazy you're running on right now."

Belch swayed in place, raising the Zapper. It popped, and the dog snickered. Belch tried to shoot the dog too, making Henry laugh. Vic almost laughed, but his mind kept the image of Butch touching himself, turning Vic’s stomach over. He regretted saying anything, remembering the way Butch had leered at him, and the odd, sexual undertones of his words.

_If' she had a little girl instead of you..._

Vic snuck a glance to Henry. His fingers twitched, wanting to take Henry's hand. Henry saw, and handed Vic the cigarette. It tasted like shit because it was one of the fucking menthol abominations Patrick had brought, but it overpowered his thoughts. As he released a mouthful of smoke, Butch’s naked image disappeared, although the sense of unease around it stayed.

“I couldn’t deal with him every day,” Vic said in a low voice. Henry didn’t need to ask who Vic was talking about. Vic was pretty sure Butch had turned in hours ago, but he wasn’t going to risk it. Vic had seen the consequences of going over the line with Butch. He didn’t want to cross that line that day, not after that smile.

“I just remember what he did to my mom, and try not to make the same mistakes,” Henry said, his voice even lower, for all the same reasons.

The sound of that dog’s hideous taunting laugh was punctuated by an angry growl. The Zapper flew across the basement and struck Butch’s workbench. Belch then looked at Vic.

“C’mon, time t’go,” he said, and clapped his hands. Vic gave Henry a pleading look. He wasn't ready to go. Henry gave a small smile back. He wasn't ready for Vic to leave either. They crawled out of the tent, a decision having been made - two decisions, actually. They helped Belch get Patrick to his feet, and then Henry draped Patrick’s arm over his shoulders. Belch did the same with the other side. Vic hung back as they dragged Patrick towards the stairs. “You comin’? Your mom said 11.”

“Nah,” Vic picked up the Zapper. “If it’s cool with you, I don’t wanna go home tonight. Pop and Mama are going at it again. This time, it's about groceries, and they're blaming me.” Vic gestured to himself. "Do I look like I'm eating that much?"

Belch almost dropped Patrick as he raised his finger to point at Vic. “You’ll call my mom if you change your mind. I'll come back f'you.”

“Calling your mother is the greatest pleasure in life,” Vic said, his voice sweet. Belch laughed and the three of them stumbled upstairs, leaving Vic alone.

Vic plugged the Zapper back in and restarted the game. He wasn’t as good as Henry, but he was much better than Belch. He had gotten 9 ducks the first round, and was zapping duck 8 for round two when he heard the sound of the basement door opening. Vic turned around, expecting to see Henry. There was no one. He glanced around, feeling a genuine chill forming in the air, along with a smell -- a musty Earth smell, like rotten potatoes, or a damp cellar. Holding the Zapper close to his chest, Vic took two small steps to peek around the tent so he could see what was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, moving in flashes of silver -

Vic jumped when the door swung open again. Henry stopped at the top of the stairs, and gave Vic a quizzical glance. 

"Is Butch awake?" Vic asked, his minding jumping to the logical conclusion: Butch must've checked in on him. He darted his eyes to the end of the stairs. Seeing nothing there, Vic set the Zapper down, hoping they wouldn’t have much time for video games.

“Butch is konked out on the porch,” Henry said, sticking his hands in his back pockets. He went down the stairs, two steps at a time. “So, uh… he won’t bother us if you wanted to… you know, do something _really_ stupid. You know, not like the regular stupid.”

“You think it's stupid?" Vic asked, holding his voice between playful and hurt. "Gee, thanks, Hank."

Henry rubbed his hands together. He pointed at the Nintendo. “My turn.”

Vic blinked. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No,” Henry had a little bit of a pout going as he walked by Vic, and turned the dial on the TV until it was too loud to think over. He restarted the game. Vic stared at him until Henry raised one of his eyebrows, and gave Vic a little smile. “Take off my jacket.” Vic scoffed, and shrugged it off. He turned to go back to the tent, trying not to feel angry, prompting Henry to finish, “Now take off everything else.”

_Oh._

Henry was focused on the game, so Vic didn’t think he wanted a show. He stripped off his clothes down to his underwear, and, when Henry turned and glared at them, Vic hesitated, then removed those too. Patrick’s condom made a sound as it fell to the floor. Vic had forgotten it was in there. He picked it back up, and set it down beside the Nintendo, trying not to look at Henry. He had never been  _completely_ naked in front of Henry before. Sure, they'd touched a little over the years, slowly creeping around to third base. But it was under clothes. 

The basement was very cold, and Vic felt the blush running all over him. Henry pointed the Zapper at Vic, closed one eye, and then grinned.

“Now, put the jacket back on.” Vic did as he was asked. Henry took a step back to admire the view, and Vic raised out his arms in a _How do I look_ gesture. Henry, as usual, didn't answer with words. Instead, his eyes got soft, and when he looked at Vic, Vic felt that glow building inside of him. 

Henry grabbed the Wild Turkey, the condom - Victor's heart jumped when he saw - and Vic's hand. He ducked inside the tent, tugging Vic along. Henry drank a little bit, and then handed it over. Vic eagerly took a swallow, wincing as it burned the whole way down, but it left his belly feeling pleasantly warm, so he took another. By the time Vic had finished the bottle, his limbs were noodles, but he felt better. He felt more prepared for what was coming next. Because as much as he was afraid, he felt it was happening. That night was  _the_ night.

“Lay down for me,” Henry ordered, his voice soft. 

His nerves trembling, Vic started to do as asked. But he wasn't fast enough. He fell backwards as Henry was on top of him, pushing his legs apart, moving between them. Their lips met, the kiss laced with the faintest pain as Henry’s hand grabbed the back of Vic’s hair, crushing their faces together. The denim of his jeans dug into Vic's crotch as he began moving against him. It was all so familiar, and all so different. Vic wanted to get lost in the moment like he did in his fantasies, but it was  _real_. It was real, and the panic was beginning to form.

_Don’t show him you’re afraid…_

Just as quickly as it began, it all stopped. Henry leaned back, and looked down at Vic. The way he was staring left the blond flustered. His eyes were hungry,  _starved,_ and Vic felt like the sweetest morsel. 

But he had never done this before. They had barely been fondling. He knew nothing about how  _that_ worked, except from the jokes people made, and those gave Vic such nightmares. What if he had to go to the hospital because Henry was too big? The doctors would know, and they'd tell Vic's parents. Or what if he refused to go to the doctor, and everyone could tell by the way he limped? What if Henry left bruises on his body, or really fucked something up?

“I don’t—” Vic was going to say _want to do this_ , but the other words died in his throat. Henry had begun move his hands down his own body, slowly, drawing Vic’s eyes to where he wanted them to look. He undid the button of his jeans. Vic gasped as Henry pushed his pants and underwear down just enough that Vic could see his dick was hard as a rock. 

Oh God, he was definitely going to be tearing something up. At the same time, Vic felt his own body responding. Maybe the hospital was worth it, because the more he looked at Henry, the less he cared.

“You don’t what?" Henry asked, rubbing himself. "Want me? Want this? Make up your mind, Vic. You a queer or not?”

"Yeah... no... what?" Vic shook his head. He was surprised, but it actually worked. His head cleared just enough, even though a spike of pain shot through it. "Can't we do what we normally do? Butch is upstairs, and I've never-"

All the backhands that stung his mouth when he was being a little shit didn’t hurt near as bad as the one from Henry just then. It wasn’t the pain itself, but the shock of how sudden it came, and the trust that was broken between them. Vic reeled back, bringing his hand up to his face. Henry’s face was stone, until he saw what he’d done. Then, it crumbled.

“Vic, I’m sorry,” He was already saying, before Vic had even taken another breath.

“Henry, what the fuck?” Vic’s voice was higher than he intended, betraying how close he was to tears. “What the fuck, Henry?”

Henry leaned down to touch Vic’s face, and Vic jerked back.

“I’m sorry. I was just…” Henry trailed off. Vic saw Butch in the lines on his face as Henry's voice took a dangerous tone. ”I'm tired of this bullshit. Either you want this or you don't. You can't keep pussying around, Vic. Do you want me, or not?"

Vic looked at his hand – there was a shiny red spot on his fingers. Henry had made him bleed. He stared at his fingers and then back to Henry. Vic was angry, but worse, fear, confusion, _desire_ … it swam in Vic’s head, mixing with the cloudy alcohol, making him dizzy. 

"You made me bleed," Vic said, a little dazed.

Time seemed to freeze. Henry was no longer frightening, but frightened. His eyes were wide, searching for something in Vic’s, and his chest rose and fall with heavy breaths. Henry’s voice trembled as he spoke, “I'm sorry. But, you need to learn what you want. You can't keep doing this to me."

“This _is_ what I want,” Vic said, between gritted teeth. He didn't address the second part.

“Then why? I don’t get it. You know what Butch’d do to me if he caught us? I’m risking that to make you happy."

“What about you?” Vic asked, licking his lips. He could still taste blood, so he wiped it on the back of his hand. Henry sat down, his hands resting on his lap, looking at Vic like he was a child. “You always say that this is for me. This is _my reward_ or you're _thanking me_. I don't want it if you don't. I... I'm pretty sure I love you, Henry, okay? But I don't need another asshole beating up on me because I'm not good enough for them, and I sure as fuck am not going to be just another plaything. You want someone to fuck to pass the time, you go to your girlfriend. Who is it this week, Beverly?"

Vic’s last ounce of anger disappeared when Henry suddenly looked unsure, if not a little hurt. He glanced down at his hands, and sighed.

“I know, and I'm sorry,” Henry was quick to say. “It’s a motherfucker who beats his gal. Or, uh… guy.” Then, looking at the condom, Henry sighed and tapped it against his hand. "I don't know about... some of that stuff. But I need you, Vic. I need  _you._ You're my best friend, and I... Can't you just take that for what it is? We can't be a couple. We're not going to get married and have two kids and a white picket fence. Not if we want to survive. So do you want me, yes or no?"

They both stared at each other, waiting to see what the other one did. Vic knew Henry was bad with words, and in fact, hearing Henry say he needed him was like he'd wished on a star. He was disgusted with how much it turned him on. He was getting hard. Henry noticed, and repeated himself, "I need you. I need _us_."

Vic initiated the kiss this time, wrapping both hands into Henry’s mullet. He pulled him down until they were lying on top of each other. Henry was cautious, and then, hungry. Vic reached down and slid Henry’s underwear and pants off, freeing his erect member. Vic unwrapped the condom. He was going to slide it onto himself, but looking at Henry, he felt guilty. He didn’t even know what he felt guilty about. He searched Henry’s face, and what he saw there didn’t make him feel very good. Henry looked resolved, not excited. Not like he’d looked before.

Vic rolled the condom onto Henry, instead. It was a little big, but not too bad. Vic leaned back, and saw that whatever had left Henry for a moment had returned. He was looking at Vic like, as Belch said earlier, it was motherfucking Christmas.

"If this hurts, I'm never letting you be on top again," Vic warned. Henry started to move in, and Vic held out his hand, stopping him for one last thing: "And I don't want kids. This works for me, unless you fuckin' hit me again. Then we're done."

"I won't hit you again," Henry said, his face somber. "But in public, things have to be like normal. Do what I say, don't get angry if I don't defend your honor, and don't get goo goo eyes."

Vic thought about it, and then sighed. "Fine. Deal."

"Also, it's going to hurt a little, I'm an extra-large, as you can see," Henry joked. Vic smiled in spite of the nervous flutter in his heart.

"It's a little bi-"

Henry was insatiable; his tongue brushing against Vic’s, their flesh together, touching everywhere possible. Just like Vic had dreamed, only better. Worse? Things were happening much faster in real life than in his head. Henry was so eager, he didn’t even turn Vic around. He moved into Vic right where he laid, hitching the younger boy’s leg over his hip so he could enter him easier.

He moved in a little too rough at first, slowing down as Vic hissed, and speeding up as Vic’s body adapted. It wasn’t too long before Vic was writhing beneath him, his body overwhelmed with sensation. Henry's fingers were digging into Vic's hips, moving him so each thrust hit a little harder. Just when Vic thought he could die, Henry came with a small cry, and collapsed into Vic’s arms.

Their bodies red and sweating, spent in every sense of the word, Vic buried his face into Henry’s chest. He waited for the bubble to burst, and for something to come out to hurt them. Vic’s eyes darted back to the basement door, so certain they were being watched. It remained sealed, but stubbornly insisted it was a trick of the light.

"You aren't done," Henry said.

"No, don't move. I like this," Vic groaned as Henry's warmth disappeared. He just wanted to go to sleep with Henry, feeling safe.

"You're going to get blue balls, idiot. Now shut up, and let me do this."

Henry ran kisses down Vic’s body, and then lifted him up by his thighs. Henry set Vic's legs on his shoulders. Vic wanted to tell Henry it was okay, but Henry’s mouth was already enveloping him. As Henry sucked, Vic threw his head back, and arched his back, trying to push himself in deeper. That felt so much better. 

It didn’t take long to finish Vic off. Vic's legs tightened around Henry's neck, and then, when everything cooled again, they fell away. Vic had no strength left. Henry swallowed, and laid down across Vic. He wrapped his arms around him, and shifted to hold a little tighter.

His chest vibrated as he took in a shaky breath. It took Vic a moment to realize he was crying. Henry gave Vic a kiss on the forehead, and then rolled to his side, facing away. Vic touched his shoulder, to make sure it wasn't something he did. When Henry's hand rose to take Vic's, he released his breath in relief. 

Vic wrapped up in one of the blankets Patrick had brought, and turned the opposite direction. He winced, knowing he was going hurt more in the morning, especially after sleeping on the cement floor. He wanted to wrap around Henry and reassure him, make him stop crying. But the fear of Butch was coming back. They could shrug off being naked as a drunk thing; but being naked and in an embrace wasn't going to fly.

"Take off the condom," Victor said, thinking of Butch coming in during their sleep. 

Henry grunted, and Vic heard the sound of him moving. There was a soft thud as Henry tossed the empty bottle - the condom tucked inside - inside the small trash they'd set up. He then laid back down, getting as far from Vic as he could. 

They let sleep come to collect their minds and carry them off to dream. Vic didn’t know what kind of world he was going to be waking up to, but he knew things were going to change, and he couldn't help but feel excited at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this chapter a little longer because I just wanted to write about the Bowers gang. I love these boys so much. Again, I wound up drawing more from the books for inspiration than the movie, pulling in Henry's pink jacket, and Butch beating Vic. 
> 
> As for the other Butch-Vic scene, canonically Vic's biggest fear was Frankenstein. Since the movie removed all fears related to old horror movies and gave them similarly themed fears, I did the same thing. Frankenstein is a good fear to have for someone who is closeted, and Butch/Vic's sexuality make a good substitute. 
> 
> Constructive Criticism is, as always, appreciated. Any type of comment is much loved. My editor is another author on this account, Ambiguous. I didn't use the hemingway app for this chapter since I've been trying on different writing styles, and that app is really particular. If you see any grammatical mistakes / continuity errors, please feel free to drop it in the comments so I can correct.


	4. Last Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After several re-writes, I decided to just go with one full chapter of smut. Also, I don't know why or how I started building up the Butch/Mrs Criss relationship, but now I kind of dig it. I know there's no basis for it in the movies or book, but whatever. Headcanons ahoy!
> 
> Warnings are: Smut, rape non-con elements (a little bit of play between the two of them that some might find upsetting), underage sex, and I've updated the tags. I don't know if I should bump the rating up to explicit since this isn't very descriptive of the acts themselves, but let me know what you think.
> 
> Enjoy.

_May 1989_

 

~*~

 

Vic had reached his full height over Spring, he just didn’t know it yet. Taking a pencil and scratching the wooden doorframe of his closet above his head. Vic then turned, extended the measuring tape, and scribbled _5’7”_ in his notebook. He’d grown four inches in the past two months, and had gained maybe fifteen pounds. He could see it, too. His neck had thickened, his shoulders had broadened, and, although he kept waking up in the night with throbbing pain running up his legs, he couldn’t be happier. He no longer looked one of the gang’s kid brother, but like one of the gang.

He went to the mirror and raised one arm. Curling his hand into a fist, he brought it to his head slowly, flexing. He watched a soft shadow appear, giving the bean-like limb structure. It wasn’t as tight as Henry’s, but it was _there_ , and if that didn’t just make the sunshine a little brighter, as Mrs Huggins would say. 

Vic made some faces in the mirror, measured how drawn back his lips could be without his new braces showing, and then turned around to scribble down the changes in his journal.

He threw on a white tee and some jeans, and his cleated engineer boots. He rolled on what remained of his deodorant while heading towards the kitchen, and made a 2 point shot into the kitchen trashcan with the empty tube. There was a brown bag with his name on it already in the fridge; he made sure he grabbed an extra Pepsi for Henry, and an extra pudding for Belch.

He had almost walked out the front door when he remembered his evening plans. Putting the pen to the notepad beside the fridge to scratch off a note for his Mama when he heard the floorboards creak.

“Oh, I’m out of deodorant, and the guys wanted to go to the movies Saturday but I can help you plant the corn Sunday if you can wait a day,” Vic said. His words came out a little weird, as he absently ran his tongue along the braces just thinking about eating corn all winter again.

The chuckle that cracked across the room like thunder did not belong to either parent. Holding the pen tight, Vic’s head snapped back to see the towering figure of Butch Bowers emerging from the hallway, wearing a pair of faded blue boxers and nothing else. Most men would lose their power by the vision of them near naked, their hairy bellies losing the fight with gravity; Butch Bowers only looked all the stronger.

“Look at you, little man of the house,” he said, with a crooked smile. “You’ll need to go pick up the corn yourself, though. I presume Andy didn’t leave you much before he high-tailed it out of here.”

Vic blinked. Words were not forming in his head or mouth. Butch was not supposed to be there. It was wrong.  After a moment, only a single thought dominated: “Where’s Papa?”

“I presume in some moldy hotel dropping your college savings on a coked up hooker,” Butch said, with a little smile. He brushed Vic’s arm as he walked by, beelining it to the Mr Coffee. 

This wouldn’t be the first time Andy left them. As Vic swallowed down whatever emotions were trying to surface, he knew in his gut it was the last time, though. Victor’s parents had gotten to the point of fighting where they were no longer angry at each other, but where they were living separate lives; only married on paper, only living under the same roof “for Victor’s sake.”

Victor wasn't even there most of the time. Andy had no reason to return. Victor wasn’t going to cry – not in front of Butch – but he felt his eyes burning. 

“We also need feed for the chickens,” Victor said, quietly, not sure why. “We ran out this morning.”

Butch was scooping some grounds from a blue can into the machine. He turned and popped an eyebrow. “Excuse me? You need to speak louder. I can’t hear your mumblin’.”

“Nevermind,” Vic said, after a moment of trying to find some strength for his voice. Butch looked him up and down, either taking in the view or sizing him up, Victor didn’t care anymore. He was beginning to understand the folk who said their whole lives crumbled in an instant, because that what it felt like. The yellow checked kitchen tiles were falling out from under his feet, and he was in an emotional freefall, waiting to hit the bottom.

“Your mom says you’re getting good grades,” Butch said, his voice taking on a neutral tone. Victor’s brain couldn’t comprehend Butch trying to small talk, so he clicked into what Henry called _soldier mode_. Yes sir, no sir, have a good day sir – you answered the questions without inviting conversation, and then moved on as quickly as possible. It was Henry’s default for dealing with Butch during the _really_ bad days, and, somehow, it had become Victor’s for dealing with him at all. 

“Yes, sir,” Vic answered, dutifully.

“A son who does his chores _and_ homework, a wife as beautiful as a model even after squirting out a brat, and a nice house with some acreage…” He clicked his tongue. “Your daddy’s some stupid piece of shit leaving all this.”

Victor didn’t answer. He found the bottom of his emotional well. But instead of numbness, or cold nothing, he found fire. It was a small spark at first. Not anger, nor pride, but the bastard child of the both of them. It started in his belly, and in less than a blink of an eye, had travelled all the way down to the tips of his fingers, leaving them tingling.

He finished up his note and was turning to leave, when Butch reached out and grabbed him by the arm. The bicep Vic had been admiring in the mirror fit perfectly inside Butch’s palm – the tip of his middle finger rested against the tip of his thumb. He squeezed, and yanked Vic towards him, and then threw his arm down. Butch’s face was softening, but Vic felt his own setting. His jaw locked, his mind barricaded itself, and his muscles steeled themselves. He stared Butch down, unflinching.

Soldier mode disengaged, at least the part that followed orders. Vic was ready for a fight.

“There’s a ten in my wallet. Go down to the Sadler’s after school and pick up what you need for your chickens. There should be enough left over for a decent haircut—”

“You’re not my dad just because he’s not here,” Vic spat. Butch’s look was sharp, and Vic’s next words oozed from his lips, sweet and thoughtless. “You’re just the dildo that doesn’t run out of batteries.”

Butch’s hand was fast, but Vic was faster. Vic had crossed into the living room, and was out the door as Butch’s fist connected with the fridge. Butch did not follow. Vic did not slow down, not until he was close enough that Henry could tell who was running up the drive way.

“Hey, you’re early,” Henry said, a little surprised. He was already dressed. Good. Vic didn’t address him. He just grabbed Henry’s hand and pulled him along, at Henry’s pace. The two teenagers must’ve looked mad, running like the devil was on their heels all the way down Kansas Street. They cut across Neibolt, and slid down into the Barrens from there. By the time they’d reached the _really cool car_ Henry had been so eager to show him in the junkyard – so eager he woke up early and gave Victor a call so they could beat the clock for school – Vic had too much energy for his small frame to contain. He was hot in so many ways.

Henry was panting, holding the stitch in his side. He’d been talking; he was _still_ talking. Vic hadn’t been listening. “—so maybe I can buy it and fix it up, y’know, like Amy. Then we could race ‘em.” He leaned over and rested his hands against his knees. Henry let out a _whooo_ , and then stood up. “So why’d we have to run? I thought someone was chasin’ you.”

“Pop left,” Vic said. “Butch was the one who told me. He stayed the night, Henry. He-he was making coffee in my kitchen, in his underwear. I can’t… I don’t…” Vic bit his lip. His hands on his hips, he looked up at the sky. He couldn’t even finish his sentence.

Victor’s heart was beating in his ears, and his legs felt antsy. He wanted to run, jump, scream, dance… He felt like the world was vibrating, and if he didn’t do _something,_ he might explode. Henry started to say something – an apology, words of condolence, some comforting bullshit like that. Vic grabbed Henry’s face and crushed their lips together, making it clear he was done with words.

He was so fucking done with words.

“Jeez-um Vic,” Henry said, drawing in a heavy breath. It was the only breath he got before Vic was back at him, tearing off his belt, and pushing his tongue between Henry’s lips. They moved towards the back of the car. Henry pulled himself up and over, Victor not letting their mouths apart. Sitting on the frame where the convertible top should have been, he pulled Vic up. They fell clumsily into the back seat. Henry's belt buckle -- Vic recognized it as the one he swindled from Patrick -- was tricky, and Vic had to break their kiss so he could look down to undo it. Once it was gone though, there was no stopping him.

Henry let out a small laugh as Vic turned him over. Vic, almost forgetting, pulled out the bottle of lube from Henry’s pocket. He had swiped it from the bathroom two weeks before, using it on his birthday. Victor didn’t know if the teacher’s hadn’t noticed Henry switched out hair cream for lube, or if they didn’t care. Maybe they were just glad he was being considerate. But he'd carried it with him at all times now, just in case the mood struck them. 

A thought formed that Victor had to bite his hand to keep from giggling at: he wondered if Butch missed it all.

“Hold still,” he said, composing himself.

“Shit, that’s cold…” Henry said, tightening a little around Vic’s fingers.

“Don’t worry, I’ll warm it up,” Vic had no clue where that came from. He hadn’t intended on saying it, and once he did, he felt a blush peppering his cheeks. It was just… bad. He didn’t give Henry time to think the same thing. He removed his fingers after a few scissoring motions. Grabbing onto the frame of the ’58 Plymouth Fury for balance, and Henry’s hip for guidance, Vic slid his cock inside. Henry cried out, though not one bit of it was from pain.

“Jee-zusss,” Henry hissed. He dug his fingers into the rotted leather of the car’s back seat and rocked his hips back into Vic as Vic pushed forward again, helping to create their rhythm. Henry’s back arched, and in a breathless whisper, he commanded, “Harder.” Vic didn’t want to hurt Henry, but he obliged. They were two halves of a circuit, the electric flowing through them as they connected. Moving inside Henry, pushing in deeper with each thrust, feeling that energy between them warming the air, drawing sweat from their pores.

Henry moaned, “Harder.” Vic was in almost all the way. He felt a pinch in the back of his thigh as he angled himself better, driving down even deeper. He thought he might have hurt Henry by the way his voice trembled. Then, he heard the sound of leather ripping as Henry pulled a chunk free from the seat. “Vic, fuckin’ put your back into it and fuck me _harder._ ”

“Okay, okay…”

Both hands on Henry’s hips now, he pulled Henry onto him, pushing forward with all his strength. When Vic would think about the feeling later, it was like breaking that block to find a power flower in Mario. He felt like he'd powered up as Henry screamed, throwing himself back into Vic with just as much force as Vic pushed himself forward. Their bodies ached, and throbbed, and pulsed. Vic pulled out just enough to push back in, going in a little deeper. Henry was whining as Vic pulled out again. Once Vic was in nearly all the way to his balls, deeper than he'd known was possible, he started rolling his hips, bringing that rhythm back. Henry was gasping, moaning, mewling like an animal.

His voice much too high, Henry begged him, “Grab my hair.”

No longer questioning things, Vic dug his fingers right in, pulling Henry’s head back and pushing his own hips in at the same time. Henry’s breathless _yes_ was delicious.

Using Henry’s dirty blond hair like a Cowboy uses reins; Vic sat on his knees, pushing into Henry as far as he could go, as fast as he could go. Whatever control Henry had went out the window. He was a mess of sounds and drool, his body writhing as they shook the car so hard, it creaked and moaned with them. Henry bit down on his belt to stifle the scream as he came, and a few moments later, Vic punched the headrest of the driver’s seat, trying to contain the energy as his body exploded; his mind blanking out for three wonderful, lovely seconds. He was a starburst, all senses rushes to that singular point of contact.

Before his seed could spill, Henry was up, and Victor was falling backwards. Without warning, Henry dragged Vic by his thighs until he was on his back, and removed the rest of Vic’s pants roughly. It was Vic’s turn to cry as Henry entered him, their bodies still raw and sensitive. He was on fire as Henry grabbed his dick, yanking it, squeezing it. Beneath the dull ache of not ejaculating, something else was building. Vic didn’t know how, but it was like Henry had clicked the restart button, and it felt so much different. It felt fuller, tighter.

Henry took both of Victor’s wrists and pinned them above his head, against the car. Henry was pumping into Victor faster than Vic could respond. He couldn’t match Henry’s hips, so he laid there, letting Henry do all the work.

If Victor was a starburst, Henry was a comet – radioactive, the energy building slowly up from the reserves inside of Victor’s soul. When Henry suddenly stopped, Vic jerked his hips, expecting, and wanting, aching.

“Beg me to stop,” Henry said, his voice nearly a whisper.

Vic’s brain was mush. He stared at Henry without comprehension. “What?”

“I want to hear you beg me to stop,” Henry waited for a moment. As soon as understanding hit Vic, Henry began to move his hips again, thrusting into Vic slower, and gentler than before. It was almost too much, and not enough, all at the same time.

“Henry, stop,” Vic said, the words feeling weird at first. Henry rewarded him with an angled thrust, hitting that ticklish spot inside of Vic. Wanting more, Vic channeled that need into his next attempt. His voice cracking, Vic delivered his line sounding as desperate as he felt, “Please, stop.”

That did it. Henry’s smile was wicked, his eyes lovely. As Henry pounded him, Vic’s body vibrated, pulsed, and lit up everywhere Henry touched. His meaningless _stop, please stop_ became a mantra. But every time Vic hit the right tone, Henry became unrelenting, vicious, and altogether wonderful. Vic felt it creeping up from the corners of his body. It built up under his skin, until, startling and discreet, his muscles locked, and that familiar wave of vibrations racked his body. His cum dribbling free at the end of each wave, but Vic was barely there anymore.

“Stop, please stop, Henry, no,” Vic gasped, followed by a scream as Henry kept going. It was euphoria, and hell. Every touch was magic, and fire. Henry felt so big inside of him, and Victor was certain death was inevitable. His soul was crying out, begging Henry to “STOP!”

Vic felt the familiar warmth spreading inside of him. Henry choked out something guttural and savage from his throat, and then collapsed. Breathless, Henry repeated: “Jeez-um, Vic.”

Neither boy moved. They couldn’t if they wanted to. Victor’s body was completely void of strength, and Henry’s weight was comforting. His anger, and bitterness, had become something new and wonderful. If what he felt for Henry before was love, he didn’t know what this was. It made his heart swell, ready to burst. Henry took Victor’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

The sun beat down on them, warm, like a blanket. Vic couldn’t keep his eyes open. When he did next open them, Henry was moving. The sweat became glue between their skin, and Henry was literally peeling himself away.

“We got school,” he said, clearing his throat. “C’mon.”

“Since when do you care about school?” Victor asked, a little pouty.

“Since I’ll be getting summer classes if I fail another test,” he said, giving Victor’s thigh a meaty slap. “Butch’ll skin me if I get held back another grade.” Then, with a small scoff, “Good thing the new kid’s a little geek. I can just copy off him.”

“I don’t have to go, though. I’m ahead,” Victor said, curling up and closing his eyes again.

“If you don’t get up, I’m going to shove this entire tube up your tan track and leave you tied up naked for the kiddy-diddler to find.”

Stuttering Bill's little brother had disappeared around the same time Belch was taking the detour to Butch's house -- "We might've seen 'em if I'd gone Witcham," Belch had pointed out, making Vic feel that loss more than the others; they felt responsible, somehow. Since then, at least three of the kids who'd been got by the pervert were kids Vic knew. 

Veronica Grogan, Henry's ex, for one. Betty Ripsom had been his neighbor for nearly ten years. Stephen Whatshisname was the pitcher on their baseball team.

It was an overall tasteless joke, but Vic read the hidden meaning: _we're walking together._  It was buddy system or bust in Derry, Maine, and Henry never let them forget it. Any of them, but especially not Victor.

Vic groaned. “ _Fiiine_.”

His shirt was sticking to him, and his skin felt grimy, but Vic was dressed again. Henry tucked the lube in his book bag instead of his pocket, and took Vic’s hand again. They laced their fingers lace together, as was standard. Vic couldn’t stop the smile from taking over his face if he wanted to.

“So, you happy now?” Henry asked, smiling too. Vic took another kiss from Henry, this one a quick peck.

“Yeah,” he said, swinging their joined hands side to side. “Fuck my dad. All I need is you.”

“That’s so sweet. No wonder you need braces,” Henry grinned a little, and brought a finger up to touch the metal in his boyfriend’s mouth. Victor was quick to snap playfully at it, making Henry smile even more.

“Braces are for crooked teeth not cavities, dumb ass,” he said. Henry was laughing. He gave Vic another small kiss. Henry finished the kiss with a soft punch on Vic’s arm. Victor returned the punch, prompting Henry to take a few steps back, his shoulders squaring up. They locked eyes, and without exchanging a word, started trying to get the other in a headlock.

Victor almost got Henry’s head, but Henry won in the end. He threw his weight forward so they both fell, and then rolled on top of Vic. Grabbing Vic’s wrists, Henry pinned them above his head, not at all unlike from when they were having sex. Vic struggled, but he stopped as soon as he felt the half-chub poking into his thigh.

“No fuckin’ way, Henry,” Vic said, playfully, at first. When he saw the mischievous glint in Henry’s eyes – lovely and terrifying at the same time – he repeated himself, much firmer. “No. How the fuck are you getting hard right now?” Henry ran his thumb along Vic’s wrists. Vic could see the thoughts forming. “I’m not playing. Get off of me!”

“Relax,” Henry said, his voice almost a purr. “I’m just taking a picture with my mind for the spank bank. I was little distracted earlier."

He crawled off Victor, and then helped him up to his feet. An uneasy feeling was lacing its way through the pleasant happiness from before. He thought about what Henry had asked him to do, and say – _beg me to stop_ – and every time his mind began to formulate a theory, he shook it away, not wanting to see; not wanting to know. Strangely, as Victor turned it over, he thought of Butch.

_If you'd been born a girl, I'd be a happy man._

His stomach souring, Victor didn't just halt that train of thought, he tore up the tracks and removed all traces of it from his mind. He stared at Henry, trying not to notice the shadows of Butch haunting his young features, and smiled when Henry looked back.  

Henry loved him. Henry didn’t want to hurt him. That was just a game, like the ones they played when they were little, and Henry would “kill” him. Because Vic was almost always the bad guy, and Henry was always the hero, and that’s just how the game went. It wasn't anything personal. It wasn't anything like Butch.

They started walking towards school, Henry taking his hand once more.

“Hey, Henry,” Victor’s voice was a perfect mask of casual, hiding the unease lurking behind his question. “Could you not do that again? Not without asking first."

“Do what?” Henry asked, his brow furrowing as if he were thinking very hard.

“Pretend to r—” He couldn’t even say the word. “Pretend to hurt me. I don’t think I like that.”

“Oh,” Henry blinked a few times. “You looked like you liked it.”

“Yeah, but, what if you really are hurting me and you think I’m just playing along?” Victor asked, squinting as he got an eye full of sun trying to look up at Henry’s face.

“How about if that happens, you say something else so I know you’re being real? Cool with you?” Henry suggested. Victor thought about pushing the subject, but he had the feeling Henry wasn’t really listening, so he dropped it.

“Sure. If I ever want you to really stop, I’ll say Megatron. But you will stop, even if it looks like I'm okay, right?"

“Megatron,” Henry repeated, grinning crookedly. “You’re such a fucking nerd.”

Vic rested his head on Henry’s shoulder, and studied his face. He really did love Henry, but that worrying thought wasn't going away. They broke away and were giving each other good distance by the time they were crossing the grass to Derry High.

It never occurred to Vic that Henry never answered his question. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive Criticism is, as always, appreciated. Any type of comment is much loved. This chapter was rewritten so many times I gave up on asking Ambiguous to edit or beta read, and I didn't using Hemingway because I was practicing stylized writing. I read several smutty stories to get the idea of how to write this, and discovered I am very uncomfortable with graphic depictions of actually having sex, lol. If you see any grammatical mistakes / continuity errors, please feel free to drop it in the comments so I can correct.


	5. Last Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was edited after posting due to Ambiguous editing it.

_June 1989_

 

_~*~_

 

The summer sun was bearing down on the town, making everything hot, and everyone sticky. The people who weren’t inside found themselves drifting to Bassey Park, where picnics were being had, or the field behind the Tracker Bros, where one could win $20, if they were lucky, on a game of scratch ball.

The three teens found themselves somewhere in between, near the Derry Community House, standing around the large trees and monuments, not really feeling like doing anything; the fourth was lying belly-down on the grass, kicking his feet like he did when he was five and was scribbling out a picture for his mother. The slightest breeze caught their shirts or hair every now and then, but it was the treats they were munching on that was keeping them cool. 

Belch and Patrick both had ice cream, but were experiencing it in vastly different ways. Belch was taking big, slurping licks from a two scoop cone with vanilla and chocolate, making it swirl on his tongue. His was truly a race against time and gravity to catch every drop as it melted, but so far, he hadn’t missed a single one. Patrick had made the smarter choice of a plastic bowl over a cone, but he sat there and watched it melt. Once it was effectively just cream, his tongue snaked out of his mouth in short little bursts, lapping it up. He rested his chin on his hands, laced beneath it, elbows far enough apart his neck barely moved as he dipped low enough to drink comfortably.

For Victor, his treat was an orange soda. He’d gotten used to the feeling of his braces, but was more aware of them with every sip than he’d been since he got them.

 _No soda without a straw, but I’d prefer none at all,_ the Dentist had said. Well, fuck him. It was hot outside, and food just didn’t seem that tempting.

Swallowing a mouth full of metal corroding orange flavored acid, Victor leaned against the tree in such a way his bangs were covering most of his face. He stood like this on purpose, so that he could watch Henry eating a Rocket Pop without being too obvious.

Henry’s mouth had turned red from sucking and nibbling on the tip of it. It was both beautiful and obscene. Unaware that he had an audience, Henry took the pop down halfway through the white portion, slurped up some of the melted juice, and then bit off the remainder of the red as he pulled it out. Even as his face contorted when brain freeze struck, it was filling Vic's belly with a dangerous warmth, and his mind with dangerous ideas. 

"Can I have a sip of that?” Patrick asked. Vic made a Hmm sound as he turned to look at the boy who spoke. It took Victor a few moments to realize what he was talking about.

Patrick, not waiting for an answer, crossed his arms in front of his chest and rolled over. Now at Victor’s feet, his opened his mouth wide. Vic tipped his drink until a cautiously-sized stream was pouring down. It fell perfectly between Patrick's lips, hitting the back of his throat with an odd, but satisfying, sound. Patrick didn’t swallow, but let his mouth fill. When he'd had enough, he closed his mouth, his cheeks puffing as he pushed the liquid into them. He then rolled back over, and spat out every last drop into the bowl of cream.

“That’s gross,” Belch observed, with a flat tone. Victor giggled at Belch's delivery of the line. 

“It’s just like a root beer float,” Patrick said, licking his lips. “Nothing like a good soda _pop_ right into that tasty, tasty cream. Wouldn’t you agree, Vic?”

Henry's attention was sudden. He searched Vic, though for what, Vic didn't know. He turned it over in his mind, and found nothing overtly sexual or flirty – at least, nothing that would’ve triggered some kind of jealousy or judgement. It was all standard Patrick.

Instead of giving any insight, Henry scooted away from Vic a little bit, and went back to his Popsicle, his shoulders a little colder. It was a small thing, but Vic felt it like a punch to the stomach.

Belch made a smacking noise as he took a bite out of his cone. “Even grosser,” he said, with a full mouth. 

Like popping a balloon with a bullet, things were back to normal with sudden ferocity. Patrick was back to lapping up his melted float, Belch was absently licking away, and Henry was trying to look cool, his one arm across his chest and his one leg propped against the tree. Victor sucked up the last of his soda, and then scooted a little closer to Henry.

At the same time, Henry pushed away from the tree, and started walking towards the trash. Vic stared after him, trying to figure out if it was on purpose or if it was a coincidence. The thought that he could've done something to make Henry want to avoid him was more stressful than Vic wanted to admit. 

Stepping over Patrick, Henry headed towards the barrel the park used for a public trash. He looked in, and then dropped in his rocket pop. Absently, he kicked a ball of paper that someone had thrown beside the trash. It scampered across the grass and into Patrick, who looked like he was going to throw it, until he abruptly changed his mind. 

Patrick began to unroll it, and smooth it out on the grass beside him. Vic recognized what it was before he even saw the familiar grayscale photo.

"Eddie Corcoran's missing poster," Belch said. Victor looked around, trying to locate the usual spots for the posters: the street lamp, the side of the outdoor restrooms, the buildings in the distant... they were all bare.

Henry plucked another ball from the pile and opened it up. Eddie's face stared up at him from that one, too. And the next. Even the one after that. Henry dropped each poster after unrolling it, stopping only once there were at least seven on the ground around him.

"Who would throw these away?" Patrick asked.

"Does it matter?" Henry asked, void of emotion. "In a few days there's going to be a new face being hung up everywhere, and nobody'll care about these assholes anymore."

"Yeah, but that ain't right," Belch said.

"Doesn't matter if it's right," Henry's voice was sharp, almost angry. It left no room for argument. "It's what's going to happen. Just like the Stuttering Freak's little brother and everyone else. They're gonna care for a few hours, and that's it."

Patrick's leg was cocked in the air, frozen mid-swing. He stared at Eddie's sideways photo, tracing the edges with his finger.

"What do you think it's like?" He asked, his fingers working out a stubborn wrinkle across Eddie's face. "Dying, I mean."

Belch's face blanched, and his shoulders fell, as if someone had placed heavy weights, even for him, across them.

"Maybe death came so fast they didn’t notice," Victor suggested, not knowing what else to say. 

Victor didn't think about death often, not even with it happening all around them. When he did think of it, it was some far away thing. He knew it was coming, and he had some ideas about how it might happen, but it wasn't something he expected to be waiting around the corner at age 15. None of them did.

Henry was staring at the ground, his lips pressed together in a thin line. It was his give away that he was uncomfortable with the subject. 

"It's just funny," Patrick said, a little laugh breaking up his words. "To think you could be living your last day on Earth, and not know it."

"SHUT UP PATRICK!" It was Belch who snapped. "Jesus crow, can we just talk about  _anything_  else?" 

Victor wasn’t frightened when Belch raised his voice. But Henry stepping forward, quiet, staring at Belch with a wide-eyed glare was enough to send a shiver down Vic’s spine. Instead of snapping back, or yelling, Henry’s voice lifted up, calm, cool, and casual.

“Hey, so, a salesman is driving to his home from a long trip when he sees this Indian on the side of the road, thumbing for a ride. A little lonely, he stops the car and the Indian gets in. After a bit of small talk, the Indian notices a brown bag on the front seat.

“‘What’s in the bag?’ he asks.

“The salesman says, ‘it’s a bottle of wine. I got it for my wife.’

“The Indian is silent for a moment, and then says, ‘good trade.’”

It takes a few seconds for it to register that Henry had just told a joke. Not because he didn’t tell them often, but due more to the emotional residue of their previous topic of conversation. When it finally does hit them, Patrick is the first to laugh. High-pitched and full of such glee, his laugh draws out the one from Vic, given in equal parts nervousness and amusement. Belch is last, but laughs so hard tears build up in his eyes.

“Wait wait, I got a good one—”

As Belch told the story of the Traveling Salesman and the Farmer’s Daughter, a vaguely familiar form came wiggling through Vic's line of sight about a block behind Belch. He almost looked away, thinking nothing of it. But something held his eyes, told him to  _really look_. 

Squinting and shielding his eyes from the sun, Vic saw that sure enough, who Vic thought it was was  _exactly_  who it was: the chubby little new kid who refused to help Henry with the test. Things clicked into place for Victor in that moment. 

Henry and Patrick were howling at Belch’s joke. Belch broke out into a huge smile, pleased with himself. When Vic started speaking, though, they all seemed to know it was for something different, and more exciting.

"Hey, Hank, I spy with my little eye something round and due for payback," Vic said, gesturing with his head. Henry looked in that direction. He didn’t smile with his mouth, but his eyes became clear, sparkling with that glint of mischief. When he looked back at Victor, there was warmth, even pride.

“Let’s get ‘im,” Patrick said, standing up. His lighter was already in his hand. His voice was soft, nearly a whisper, as he said, “I got something I want to show him.”

 “Hold on, he’s going into the library,” Henry said, his tone thoughtful. He bit off his thumbnail chewing on it as the gears turned in his head. “I got a plan.”

 

Everything happened so fast, it felt like it wasn’t real.

They had waited for Tits Hanscom – whatever his real name was – to emerge from the library. When they pounced, Vic took his left arm, and Belch took his right. They lifted all 190 pounds of him off the ground. As they carried him to the kissing bridge, they passed him around, tormenting him. Patrick pulled Tits’ shirt over his head, and Vic drummed on his meaty stomach. Then Vic was dragging him, and Patrick was digging his boot into Tits’ ass. 

The kid wasn’t having fun, but they were. They didn’t even feel slightly guilty about it, either. Not until later, when they'd head time to really think about what it was leading up to. 

The closer they got to the canal, the less Victor felt like he was in control. It wasn’t his choice to press Tits into the kissing bridge and hold him there – it was just something he was doing. When Patrick was setting off fireballs with his can of hairspray and lighter, Victor wanted to step forward and smack them out of his hands, but something held his legs in place. When Henry was pulling out his knife, Victor saw, but he didn't comprehend. 

If Vic had realized Henry was dragging his knife across Tits’ skin, he didn't realize it was actually cutting. 

Henry wouldn't _really_ hurt the kid. Victor believed that at the time. He knew better now.

But he didn’t want to think about that. He also didn’t want to think about how Henry's face had twisted and contorted until it was Butch's face. Spittle flying from his mouth, his voice sounding raw as he screamed, “ _Shut uuup!”_

The look on Belch’s face had jarred Vic back to reality. He’d never seen Belch scared before, and he never wanted to see it again.

Leveling a dark look at Henry, Victor loosened his grip on the New Kid's arm; Belch saw, and followed suit.

The New Kid dug his sneaker into Henry's gut, and used it as a spring board to flip backwards, his arms slipping freely from the two. He somersaulted over the railing, and hit the ground, rolling down the hill at the bottom of the bridge, and into the Barrens. Vic hung back as Henry leaped after him, followed by a howling Patrick.

He and Belch exchanged a glance that contained multiple conversations:

Were they okay with this? _No_.

What had they been doing, exactly? _They didn’t know_.

Was Henry really going to carve his whole name into someone’s cottage cheese? _Sure looked like it._

Were they going to let Henry and Patrick catch the kid? _Fuck no_.

On that, they were over the edge too, kicking up dirt as they tried to keep their balance on the descent, watching Henry failing and falling only a few feet ahead of them—

That had been hours ago.

“PATRICK! PATRICK HOCKSTETTER!” Officer Conley shouted, his hands cupped over his mouth.

Vic was ankle deep in Derry’s shit-water, a flashlight in one hand as he reached into the area below the sewer drain, trying to find the shiny thing Belch had spotted. He scooped out a handful of slimy dirt, and rinsed it in the stream. It wasn’t Patrick’s lighter, but someone else’s. Belch tapped Vic’s shoulder, and as the blond stood, he handed it over so Belch could see.

“Not his,” Belch said. He walked off, joining the two Officers Butch had assigned to them, not really believing that Patrick hadn't run away. Belch’s voice broke through the night air high-pitched and sounding more scared than Vic had ever heard it before as he searched the underbrush. “ _PATRICK_!”

Victor felt tired in a way that transcended his physical existence. Patrick had been armed. Then, when Henry split them up, he sent Belch with Patrick – Belch, the biggest, and strongest, of them all.

The odds were in their favor. Yet, somehow, Patrick was just _gone_. The Pervert had gotten around the flame thrower, gotten around Patrick's sharp eyes and rabbit-punches, and snatched him away to do God-knows-what to him before killing him.

And it was Vic's fault. 

If he hadn't pointed out Tits to Henry, or wasted their time burying Henry's knife... if he had just done something else at any point during the day, he might've saved Pat.

Using the dry part of his arm, Vic wiped some sweat from his brow, and then raised the light to look down into the sewer pipe. He thought he’d heard something splashing, but the water appeared undisturbed.   

It didn’t smell like sewer – it smelled like rotten Earth. Pungent and sharp, Victor found himself thinking of Henry’s basement. Or more specifically, of the thing at the bottom of the stairs. The thing he never quite saw, but had known was there. He knew it the same as any child knew something was under their bed, or lurking in their closet. He could feel it watching him.

He didn’t see it again sitting in the bushes across the Kenduskeag, moments before Belch came thundering up towards them, his face red. He had begun to see it, though. Digging deep into his memories, he could almost make out the shape and color of it. Something... silver. With orange polka dots. Polka dots? No. Not polka dots: pompoms. Big orange pom poms in a crooked row down its chest—

“Hey, what are you doing?”

A light struck the wall and Vic jumped back, startled by a movement in his peripheral. For just a moment, he swore he saw it again, moving faster than his eyes could comprehend. He swung his own flashlight around, and then let out a puff of breath.

Jumped at his own shadow is what he’d done.

Feeling stupid, Victor turned his light over to see who was at the opening of the sewer. He wasn't sure whether he was relieved or not to see Henry.

He started walking back towards his boyfriend. He’d been so lost in his thoughts, he had somehow crossed nearly seven feet of sewage without realizing he was moving at all. Henry didn’t move the light from Vic, aiming it low so Vic could see where he was stepping. He did click it off when Vic was sliding out of the pipe, but only so he could stick it in his pocket and take Vic’s instead.

When fresh air struck Vic's face, he had to roll his eyes at himself again. How he could’ve mistaken  _that smell_  for something Earthen was beyond him, because he definitely smelled like shit. The pipe smelled like shit. Everything smelled like shit. It was in his nose.

"Why are you alone?" Henry asked, his voice tilting on the side of anger over concern. Victor looked around, realizing everyone had moved downstream. Henry waited for Vic to grasp the situation before grabbing Vic's neck roughly, digging his fingers in the back. A small, pained noise escaped as Henry pulled him in close. Close enough to kiss. "God dammit, Vic. That is  _exactly_  what got Patrick killed!”

“Let go of me, asshole!” Victor wanted to yell. His hands were even on their way up to plant themselves against Henry’s shoulders and shove him back, emphasizing his words. Instead, he took two fistfuls of Henry’s shirt, and pressed his face into it. Henry’s fingers loosened, letting him.

Henry’s shirt didn’t smell like sewer, or Earth. It smelled like suave soap, and Henry’s natural scent, strong from him sweating all day, unbarred by deodorant. Victor felt dizzy as he drew in a deep whiff, trying not to cry. 

He loved that smell more than anything in the world. It made him feel safe, secure… loved…

“I’m sorry,” Victor said, closing his eyes, wanting to drift away like he’d done earlier. Running on automatic wasn't so bad when the knives were put away. "I thought I saw something."

"If he was running away for some reason, seems like a good place to hide," Henry said. He was contemplating something, making his words slow. "But if Patrick's hiding down there, he's going to have to wait. You go in there without a map and you'll starve to death before anyone'd find you.”

Victor sighed. “I know.”

“Vic,” Henry said, he voice falling into a cautious tone. "Were you and Patrick... did you guys... did he..."

Henry never finished any of his sentences, but he didn't need to. Vic's brow furrowed. He pulled back from Henry just enough to try and read his face in the dark. 

"No," Victor let out a soft laugh. Henry wasn't laughing, though. When he looked at Vic, he was more serious than Victor had ever seen him. "Wait, do you really think I'd cheat on you?"

Henry shrugged. Vic waited on some kind of elaboration. When none came, he abruptly pulled away from Henry, anger bubbling up inside. Vic didn't know what he was going to do, but his hands were clenching into fists, and he had words forming in his mouth to throw at Henry for thinking that Victor would _ever_ do that to him. Then Henry looked up, his ears twitching like a rabbit listening to a predator growing closer. Vic’s reflexes told him to shut up and step away.

Henry shined the light across the stream, searching the underbrush for whatever made the noise that drew his attention. In one moment, they realized there was nothing there; in the next, they knew that was wrong. There was something there, they just couldn't see it. In the darkness, Henry looked calm, but Vic could feel Henry's fear as their hands closed around each other’s, and he tightened his hold. 

Soon, they were moving to catch up to everyone else. Or, more accurately, to get away from that area and the sewer pipe, and the feeling of being watched. 

Henry's legs were taking long strides, and Vic was in a near jog. The two boys were side-by-side, slapping mosquitos off their arms whenever they felt a tickle. As Henry started to veer off, and the distance between them grew, Victor found himself dwelling on Henry's words.

When he looked at Henry, he felt love, sure. But there was now a pettiness as well. He thought of nasty things to say, and nasty things he could do, to make Henry feel even slightly the way he'd made Victor feel. Chop him down into tiny pieces.

Vic and Patrick? _Really_?

It wasn't that Patrick wasn't attractive, but it was that Henry thought so little of Victor. As if Victor didn't tell him every moment he could that he loved Henry. As if Victor didn't go out of his way to do things that made Henry happy, even if they weren't exactly Victor's favorite thing. As if  _Victor_ was the one cruising around with girls, fucking girls only hours before fucking Henry, and not the other way around. 

Because that was some kind of bullshit-

Vic took a breath, quelling that spark before it became a fire.

That Henry could even justify that thought for a second didn't just make him angry. It made Victor want to destroy things. He settled for kicking some kid's lost and dingy teddy bear as they came across it.

Henry’s voice was harsh, whispering, "From now on, you don't go anywhere alone. I don't care if it's to get the fucking mail, you fucking get someone to stand guard." His voice cracked as he said, "I can't lose you, too."

"Sure, Hank," Vic answered, spitting out each word.

"Hey, I'm serious. This isn't just some bullshit. If that guy can get Patrick, you don't stand a fuckin' chance," Henry said. So Vic repeated himself, "Sure."

Henry walked close enough to cup Victor’s chin, tilting his head up. Vic knew what was coming, and though he was tempted to jerk his head away, he didn't stop it. Henry brought their lips together. Victor wanted to enjoy it, to kiss back, but he wanted his anger more. His emotions were a jumbled up mess that needed sorting, and kisses were just complicating things. 

The message wasn't getting through. Henry kissed Victor's unresponsive lips like there wasn't anything different than normal. Victor wasn't sure if he was being irrational or not, but that made him even angrier. He pretended to be listening to something behind them. Henry looked around when he noticed. Victor waited a few moments, and then started walking away, pulling himself free from Henry's grip easily. He heard Henry start to follow after a brief pause.

They shared no more words, and when they caught up with everyone else, Vic's anger turned into sadness, and then, fatigue.

Vic went to Belch's side, and stayed there the remainder of the night, not saying anything to anyone. He was not giving Henry - or anyone, really - a chance to influence his thoughts before he had a chance to know what they were himself.

The adults called off the search shortly after midnight. Officer Nell took Victor to his house, surprising both Belch and Henry, who watched him climb into the police cruiser without saying as much as a goodbye.

The minute he got home, he knew he was alone. Mama wasn't there. Papa wasn't there. Hell, even Victor wasn't 100% certain he was all there. Feeling that anger resurface, Victor grabbed the Louisville slugger by the back door, and the Precious Moments figurines from the hall cabinet. With only moonlight to help him see, Vic tossed the figurines in the air, and, one by one, either sent them flying across the yard to shatter on the fence, or pulverized them into dust on the concrete porch when he missed. 

When he was out of figurines, he took the bat to the clay planters. His Mama hadn't planted flowers in forever, so they were empty, and easy to break. 

Finally, Vic took out the family photos. He sent the little frame his his fourth grade school picture across the fence and into the neighbor's yard. He broke the glass across his parents wedding photo, and then set it on fire with some matches. He put a crack in every frame still hanging on the wall, especially those of his dad.

Tired, he passed up leftover meatloaf for two spoons of peanut butter, and then collapsed, fully dressed, onto his bed. The phone rang on two separate occasions, but Vic didn't move. He laid there, staring up at the ceiling, hoping that some kind of epiphany would hit him.

It didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the book, Vic's POV gives us some insight into the trance like state Pennywise puts several characters under in order to control them. I just elaborated on that in regards to Vic getting lost in a daydream. This chapter was hard to write for different reasons than the last. Namely, I'm struggling with pacing right now. If you have any tips or suggestions, please drop them in a comment.


	6. Last Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Noncon elements, major character death, violence... I spent forever writing this because I hit my seasonal depressive episode. Also, I had a slightly different ending in mind while writing all the rest of the story and then discovered that ending perfectly matched a popular imagine on Tumblr, so I had to redo it.

_July 1989_

~*~

 

“Get the fuck up and talk to Burp!” Victor didn’t open his eyes, moaning in protest when he felt the warm, cozy blanket disappear. Ice cold air conditioning stung against his skin, and forced him to curl up, his legs breaking out in gooseflesh. “I am tired of him calling!”

Not content with just stealing his comforter, his Mama grabbed the corners of his pillow, and pulled hard. His head struck against the lumpy mattress, jolting him wide awake. He rolled to try and grab it, but it was already too far out of reach.

All the snotty things he was going to say to her died in his throat. Mama’s face was an emotionless mask – her eyes permanently fixed in a droopy, tired gaze. But Victor knew it was hiding a sadness that had been wrapped up inside bitterness and buried so deep, it was practically Mumm-Ra. He knew it had been his actions that had summoned the Ancient Spirits of Evil to create those feelings, and he was sorry, but his one attempt to apologize had been thwarted by Butch. Standing in the hallway with his back turned, telling Mama that _some boys_ needed stronger discipline.

“ _Andy always was too soft,_ ” Butch said, ominously. “ _Spare the rod, spoil the lamb, as the good Lord commanded._ ”

Victor hadn’t quite drawn up the strength to try again.

His Mama walked out the door, bedding in her arms, and Victor was glad to see her go. He glanced around the room. It was empty, but he still felt his skin crawling – leftover feelings from a nightmare that was quickly escaping him. Something about Patrick being stuck in the sink. He wished he could pull his blanket in tight, and roll his face into his pillow. But it was time to wake up, apparently. Then again, maybe, if he turned just right, he could sleep without them.

After a few moments of mental debate, Victor rolled out of bed. The walk down the hall was slow, due in part to the swollen knee that Bill Denbrough left him with. In his ninja turtle boxers, he could very clearly see the yellow and purple decorating the skin around it. It was like someone had dipped his knee in watercolor, like an Easter egg. At least it wasn’t black anymore, or bleeding.

The other part was due to the headache throbbing away on the right side of his face. That, too, was because of a well-aimed rock. But while the swelling around the gash had lessened, the pain beneath it grew, and shifted, until every flash of light made him want to vomit.

When he turned the corner into the kitchen, he winced as the sunlight struck him dead on from the window. His Mama turned to look at him, and then gestured to the counter, where she had set the phone down. Without a word to him, she went back to making herself, and only herself, lunch.

Vic wasn’t hungry anyway.

“Hey Belch,” Victor said as soon as the phone was to his ear. He pressed his fingers into his head and turned away from the window. It soothed it a little, but the headache was persistent.

Henry’s voice came through the line on the other side, aggravating it even more, “Hey asshole, why are you avoiding me?”

“Megatron,” Victor said, pinching the bridge of his nose.  He was not in the mood to deal with this.

“That doesn’t work on conversations,” Henry stated, sounding more than a little annoyed. “Now, answer the question. Why. Are you. Avoiding me?”

“Fuck off, Henry. I’m not feeling well,” Victor lied. Well, only half lied. “I have a concussion, remember? Doctor says take it easy.”

“It’s been a week—”

“You know more than my doctor, do you?” Victor asked. He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, but it crept out all the same.

“No, but I know you were feeling good enough to go to the movies with Peter Gordon last night,” Henry said. “He was getting _awful_ chummy from what I saw.”

Victor’s nose flared as he took a deep breath, and suffocated that anger before it could break out and get him in trouble.

“What, you wanna say something about that?” Victor paused for a moment, wanting to say more, but his Mama was still within five feet. So instead, he said, “Marcia accused him of cheating, which is a bitch thing to do because Peter’s head over heels for her skanky ass. So we went out to get his mind off it.”

Victor paused again as his Mama passed. She carried a small thing of soup and a diet coke into the living room, where she was watching her Dallas VHS tapes. Lowering his voice, Victor added: “You know his girl, right? Marcia Fadden? She had a pregnancy scare last Christmas? Didn’t know whether it would be _you_ or Peter was going to stand at the end of her daddy’s shotgun on her wedding day. Funny thing is, weren’t you seeing someone else around that time?”

“I didn’t…” Henry sighed. It was deep, and weighted. Victor could almost see Henry on the other end of the line, clutching the phone as he curled over it. It was the same way Henrietta had stood when talking on the phone. “Vic, I _never_ had sex with her, or any of them.”

That was genuinely surprising. The tables flipped for a moment, Victor wasn’t sure if he believed Henry. Instead of looking at that deeper, he shook it off.

“Look, whatever, alright. I don’t care,” Victor said. “I’m just taking a breather. The last two times we hung out, we got hurt. So unless we’re talking Dairy Queen and a new Nintendo game, I’m out.”

Victor didn’t need to mention that Henry had promised they’d talk last time. It had been the selling point of his pitch, even.

“ _I’ll explain everything,_ ” Henry had said, his tongue dripping silver and honey. But if it wasn’t Belch hovering around like he was the mother hen making sure his idiot chicks didn’t hurt themselves, it was Henry shutting down whenever Victor even started talking about it. His eyes would fall to the ground, his hands between his knees, and his mouth stubbornly silent until a distraction came along.

Trying to spell out his fear, and his needs, without accusing Henry of anything directly was trickier than anything Victor had ever done. But it was impossible when Henry refused to listen. So Victor resorted to the age old tradition amongst Criss men, which was avoiding the problem. He was a little young to drop a paycheck on some whiskey – and maybe he would’ve never done that anyway – so instead, it was kitten-napping.

That’s what Mrs Huggins called it when someone had a series of proper hour to two-hour long naps sandwiching a large snack – kitten-napping.

They couldn’t carry on as they were. Victor’s heart couldn’t take it. He loved Henry – _loved_ him. But he also hated Henry so much more than he ever hated anyone in his life. Because Henry knew him better than anyone else on the planet, and still had the audacity to peg him for something he would never do.

“You weren’t exactly complaining,” Henry said, with a dangerous tone. “I mean, ain’t you the one that crushed that little Pickaninny’s fingers with your boot?”

That was true, and Victor regretted it. He regretted it long before Bill Denbrough and five other kids showed up armed to the teeth with large, jagged rocks. Victor regretted it the minute he got out of the car. By the time he actually put hands on the Hanlon boy, his mind had detached itself, and his emotions had become a void.

But once he was in it, he was _in_ it. It was as always – every kick, every thrown rock, each one represented something he wanted to scream.

The rock that smacked Trashmouth between the eyes was Andy Criss leaving for Bangor after dragging his family to live some poor ass hick life on a farm. The one that hit Tits on the chest was stupid Henry, and stupid Henry’s stupid paranoia. The one that got Eddie was Butch Bowers playing with his hair, like a fucking creepazoid pervert.

Victor was almost feeling better when Bill Denbrough locked eyes with him. He knew it was over then, but he went down swinging. He got Bill so many times before that final blow took out his knee and Vic was out of the game. Even worse than the pain, though, was watching the kid let blow after blow fall off him, like he didn’t even feel it.

If you had told Vic a week ago that he’d be frightened of Stuttering Bill, he would’ve laughed. But that kid was the terminator, and Victor _never_ wanted to fuck with him again.

“That was _him_ ,” Victor finally said. “I said _we_ got hurt. I got a concussion, man. Patrick’s dead. You couldn’t even stand up for like an hour. So how about I stay home today, okay?”

There was silence as both boys waited for the other to say something. Almost too quietly, Henry started filling it with what took Victor a moment to realize was song lyrics.

“Maybe I didn’t love you quite as often as I could,” he said, his voice tender. “And maybe I didn’t treat you quite as good as I should. If I made you feel second best, Vic I’m sorry I was blind. But you are always on my mind.”

Victor had to cover his face, physically trying to keep the smile from breaking out. It was such a stupid little thing, but it was everything. To hear him say things like that, even borrowed from someone else, it created that glow beneath Victor’s skin, warming his cheeks into a red splotchy blush. He didn’t want to let go of his anger, but it was slipping.

“Pretty ballsy using Elvis to try and apologize,” Victor commented. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure his Mama still wasn’t listening. She wasn’t. She couldn’t care less. “Wasn’t he the one who said ‘we can’t go on together with suspicious minds?’”

“Shut up. And I wasn’t quoting Elvis, that’s the Pet Shop Boys… isn’t it?” Henry asked. The smile on Victor’s face couldn’t have gotten any larger. He bit into his bottom lip to keep a laugh from escaping. Henry chuckled a little himself; it was low and throaty, and tickled Victor’s ear pleasantly. He felt himself leaning towards Henry’s charm, the trap closing in around him. He could almost feel the teeth of it digging right into his heart.

It was the same as last time, and Victor was aware of this. He still couldn’t stop it happening.

“It was Elvis first,” Victor said, the smile creeping into his voice. He twirled the phone cord around his finger, listening as Henry took several deep breaths, preparing for some kind of speech. Vic expected something cheesy, maybe something trashy. He didn’t expect anything close to what came next.

“Look, I don’t have a… suspicious mind,” Henry started, his words chosen carefully. “I know you aren’t like that. But Patrick…” Henry was speaking slowly, as he did when he didn’t want to say what he was about to. It immediately drew all of Victor’s attention. “He’s smarter than me. He dresses better. He has better hair, and all his teeth… and he wouldn’t ask you do weird shit during… you know…”

The silence was thick. The phone cord uncurled and fell free of Vic’s hands. He heard Henry sniffling, like he’d been crying. “Henry—”

“And I was afraid that you were getting tired of my shit,” Henry said, his voice cracking. “I know now it was a stupid thing to say. I wasn’t thinking when I said it. I was just scared because I’ve got nothing to give you.”

Victor knew he should’ve been angry still. After all, Henry wasn’t really saying anything different. The accusation was still _there_ , only the narrative around it changed. But at the same time, hearing it in those words, Victor found some feelings of guilt surfacing.

Sure, he’d spent years soothing away all the shit Butch put in Henry, things like feeling stupid, or weak, or cruel. But who put it in his head that he was a bad boyfriend? Or that he, Henry fucking Bowers, whose hair was soft hay and skin was the sun itself, whose eyes were painted by the Gods, was anything less than desirable?

Victor would trade owning the world with anyone else for one private moment with Henry, and the idea that he had failed to somehow make that clear was both horrifying and heart-wrenching.

“I’m pretty sure Patrick was into weirder shit than hair pulling, first of all,” Victor said. Henry laughed, but the sound of it made Victor certain that Henry had been crying. “Second, I don’t want anything from you but _you_ , and that’s something nobody else can ever give me.”

Mama was still not paying attention. Victor did a quick check when he realized what he said. On Henry’s line, he could hear noise in the background as someone moved around. Henry’s voice changed immediately, becoming louder, colder, “Anyway, my dad left his gun with me and he won’t be back until late. It’s just me, Belch, and some cold beers. Come on and let’s destroy some shit.”

Victor rubbed at his dull headache, knowing that loud noises were only going to make it worse. But the siren song of unsupervised target practice was hard to ignore by itself, let alone in the shadow of what Henry said. It dulled the warning bells telling Vic not to fall for it again.

Before he could say anything, Henry already knew his decision. He heard Henry’s hand close over the mouthpiece as he whispered very clearly to Belch, “he’s gonna say yes. Go! Now!”

“Tell him not to wait outside,” Belch said. He sounded far too excited, and Vic’s resolve was gone. He could practically see Belch’s face, all bright and happy, like a puppy waiting for his master to come home. It was that final thing needed to seal his fate. The trap closed completely, and Victor was a dead man walking.

“Alright,” Victor said, knowing he’d regret it later. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Cool,” Henry said. “Belch will come get you.” Then, taking Vic completely by surprise: “I love you.”

The line went dead. Once the phone was back on the cradle, Victor walked back to his room to get dressed. He had to take a moment to lean against the door, his heart coming alive.

 _You’re such a fucking idiot_ , his brain supplied. Victor didn’t disagree. Still, he threw on that sleeveless shirt Henry liked, and fixed his hair.

His emotions were a roller coaster – soaring high when he remembered how it sounded to hear Henry say he _loved_ him – and falling low when he thought of how many times he had overlooked some important clue to Henry’s insecurities.

When he heard Amy, Vic decided not to think about it, but just to continue forward with a better understanding of things.

He tried to say goodbye as he walked by his Mama for the last time, but she barely even looked up at him. She would remember it later – his little wave and quiet _bye, mama._ The way his face was young, and full of hope. It would be about the only thing she remembered, for as soon as the door was closed, she pulled out the vodka and rum Vic had brought her nearly a year ago.

She would still be sitting there, drunk and crying, when she got the call later from Officer Conley.

 

 

There was a power in holding a gun that just couldn’t be matched with anything else in the world. Not fucking someone so hard they forgot how to be human; not getting off a good comeback and shattering someone’s ego; not diving off a cliff or screaming at tornadoes. Being on the right side of a firearm felt like what Victor imagined He-Man felt like as he thrust the Power Sword to the sky.

For those few seconds before you pulled that trigger, you were immortal.

He couldn’t imagine being on the wrong side of one. Staring into an endless dark barrel, knowing that death was one quick burst away, could make a man crumble – not a man made of paper, as Butch so eloquently put it, but even the ones made of stone and steel and leather. It made men who hated life remember what was worth living for, and it could make men who lived it to the fullest realize that they just want it all to end.

But Butch wasn’t God, and he wasn’t Superman. He might’ve felt like it when he held up that gun, the same as Victor had. But he was the paper man, not Henry. He was a paper man with a powerful toy, and he needed to prove something to someone, though Victor didn’t know who. Maybe it was himself.

Regardless, he casually aimed that gun, and then he pulled the trigger.

_Don’t show him you’re afraid…_

As Vic leaned back and tried to block the light with his bangs, his headache having taken over the back side of his head completely, he glanced over to where Henry had been sitting. The older boy was no longer there, but was coming down the driveway. Victor hadn’t seen him move, but judging by the stiff way he was walking, he still hadn’t quite recovered.

They’d all been sure Butch was going to actually hit Henry – none more than the target himself. But instead of Henry’s chest, it was the ground at his feet that exploded. Three shots, each one getting closer and closer to Henry’s boot, until one left a scuff mark, and a dark, dampness spread across Henry’s lap.

Victor watched Henry shuffle past them, heading towards his house. Victor started to walk towards him, but Henry just gave him a look, silently commanding Victor to stay put. He stood outside on his porch for a few moments, and then disappeared behind the front door. Victor did not follow, but he didn’t like it.

“Maybe he’s just getting some clean pants,” Belch said, his voice dropping into a whisper. “Look, when he comes back, let’s just go straight to ma’s house. My mom can take in my old clothes to fit him, and we can figure out the sleeping arrangements later, but the basement ain’t that cold right now. It ain’t the best solution, but there won’t be no fuckin’ crazies tryin’ to put holes in him neither.”

“Butch knows that trick now,” Vic said, crossing his arms. He rolled a rock around with the toe of his boot, thinking. “What if we just… kept driving? How long you think before we reach Canada?”

“I can’t leave my mom. I’m the only one she’s got,” he said. Vic turned around, closed his eyes, and pressed his forehead against Amy’s roof. All he needed was one good idea— “What the _fuck_?”

Victor looked up at his friend. Belch was slowly leaning away from Amy, his fists clenching. Vic spun around to see whatever it was, preparing to punch someone.

Henry was back on the porch, the screen door slamming shut behind him. He turned to face them, slow, stiff, like he was thinking. Vic’s eyes fixated on the red spots on Henry’s face, watching as they slowly ran down his face, becoming red streaks. As soon as Vic realized that it was blood decorating his boyfriend, the panic was immediate.

“Vic, no…”

He forgot Belch was even there as he moved towards Henry, a singular train of thought taking over the whole station: _Henry’s hurt._

He was going to cup Henry’s face, push back his hair, and find out where the wounds were – find out how to fix them. Vic didn’t see the knife in Henry’s hand, at first. Belch did, but he might as well have been shouting at a wall, because Vic didn’t hear him over the sound of his own anger rising. Just as soon as he realized what Henry’s intentions were, it was already done. The blade moved left to right, leaving a red smile in its wake.

Victor felt nothing worse than the prick of a mosquito bite. It was the heat in his throat as he desperately tried to pull another breath through it that told him something was wrong.

Belch was screaming, but it was far away. Blood crept between Vic’s fingers as he tried to push it back in. He felt it moving through his throat, rushing to the newly created opening, trying to escape. It flew out of his mouth as he choked on it, speckling Henry’s face even worse than before.

Victor stepped away from Henry, landing on his hurt leg wrong. His knee buckled, and his ankle twisted. His headache was screaming when his skull collided with firm soil, but then numbed itself to nothing. Lying there face down in the warm grass, it occurred to Victor that he was dying, and it had been Henry that killed him.

It just didn’t feel real. His body was working a wonderful magic, trying to lull him to sleep. Everything felt dull, and dreamlike. Even Butch looked like some child’s nightmarish take on himself. His skin sallow and eyes sunken, looking more Frankenstein than police officer, with orange pom poms instead of buttons on his uniform. If Victor could’ve felt anything, he might’ve felt fear. But even that was lost.

“That Hank. Always did like putting his little sword in the throats of pretty boys. Just like his old man,” Butch said, his voice sounding off with its playful tone. He crept closer, moving in large, slow jerks. “I know what you think about me, you disgusting, _dirty_ little thing. You tease and taunt, but you always run away. Now you can’t run, can you?”

He smiled a hideous grin, teeth as sharp as a shark’s beneath the layers of rot. Victor’s scream was as much blood as it was air. The Butchenstein would’ve lunged for him if Belch hadn’t hit the ground between them, Henry following after. Vic realized that he had to have tripped over Victor’s body, but he didn’t feel anything at all.

Henry threw a punch, and Belch caught it, and then twisted Henry’s wrist. Henry let out a feral cry, and brought his other hand down. There was an odd _squelch_ – the same sound a cantaloupe made when being cut open. When his hand came back up, it was covered in blood, the glint of the knife barely visible beneath it. Henry was bringing his knife down again, and again, and again, but Victor could only hear it.

His eyes were fixed on Butch, who was leaning over him, pulling his hands away from his neck.

“Now it’s my turn to eat you, pretty boy.”

But the world had already turned a bright white for a few seconds, and then, it went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the first death scene I've written, but I feel like it kinda sucks, so please drop some suggestions if you have any. Thank you! Only an epilogue left to go...


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